Devotion
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: Sequel to 'Desire'. A ghost, a ballerina, a viscount, and a rising star...their threads of life entwined, with but one commonality: Opera. But the Opera is gone, and as life continues, four people struggle to live with the choices they made. EM, RC.
1. Prologue

**This prologue has been composed of select excerpts from the last few chapters of _Desire_.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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"The need for devotion to something outside ourselves is even more profound than the need for companionship...for no man can live for himself alone." – Ross Parmenter

-----

_prologue_

He stopped when he saw her, her hair a river of pure moonlight as she paced the floor. She sighed, then sat rather abruptly at a desk in the corner and began scribbling away at something.

He watched her, for the first time in his life feeling awkward about it. _That can't be a good sign_, he thought, and smirked.

Some unseen force must have alerted her to his presence, for she dropped the pen and stiffened. "Who's there?" she called, trying to seem imposing, he knew, but her voice was trembling.

"I knew there was a reason you chose dance over acting," he said, stepping from the shadows. She spun around to face him, and he continued, "That attempt at bravado could not have fooled anyone. Least of all me."

Her blue eyes were wide, but she did not look as if she were about to scream. "You came back," she murmured, stepping hesitantly towards him.

"Yes."

"But…but why? You were supposed to leave—Erik, you could have been killed—"

"Well, I haven't…unless, of course, you intend on raising the alarm on me right now."

Her expression hardened, defiant, bold. "I would never do a thing like that."

"'Never say never.'"

She smiled wickedly, moving steadily closer. "Well, I did. And what are you going to do about it?"

He raked his predatory glance over her, causing her to visibly shiver. "It doesn't look like I _can_ do anything about it, Meg," he replied, his voice a lulling whisper. He reached out, bringing his fingers of ice to her delicate cheek, something—not quite love, yet not quite lust—coursing through his veins. And then, as she slowly brought her lips to meet his, he thought of the correct term.

_Desire._

-----

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered, musical, yet strained.

"Yes," she breathed, and, taking one of his hands in her own, led him in the general direction of her bed.

They stood there, facing each other, in silence, comfortable, tense. She watched his features, the way the moonlight played on his face, the grace and pure musical rhythm of his breathing. "You're beautiful," she whispered, overwhelmed, bringing her hand to rest on his hollow cheek.

He smiled, seemingly amused. "As are you…infinitely more so," he replied, and kissed her, folding her into a gentle, demanding embrace.

After several minutes, Meg, overwhelmed, pulled him closer to the bed, but Erik, seeing the direction she was headed, balked, pulling her to the floor instead. Not expecting the sharp tug of resistance, she fell heavily on top of him, breathless and embarrassed. "Erik…" she began, apologetic, curious, and desperate all at once, but he stopped her, placing his hand over her mouth softly, before teasing it lazily down her neck and arm, lingering tantalizingly at the soft curve of her breast.

-----

He came to crisis first, she immediately following, and she was shocked to discover an incredible warmth, a glow, coming from him and settling itself deep within her, flooding her being and completing her. It was the most amazing thing she had ever experienced, and she felt it, on her expression, in her body language, even reverberating from the depths of her very soul.

He relaxed, resting his full weight against her, burying his face in her neck. "Thank you," he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against her skin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"

She sighed, content, and closed her eyes, concentrating all of her available will-power on holding his now-soft form inside of her, but to no avail; he slipped out of her, at the same time rolling off of her and onto the floor next to her. "Hold me," she whispered, and, to her surprise and delight, he did just that, scooting closer to her and enveloping her in his arms as they lay together in comfortable silence, broken only by their breathing.

He disentangled himself from her and stood after a few blissful moments, but she remained on the floor, basking in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking and the cold, impartial light of the moon, her eyes closed, her lips parted slightly, ruby red, a stark contrast to the milky-softness of her bare skin. "You look like Diana," he observed quietly, pausing for a moment in his quest to locate his trousers.

"Who?" she asked, nothing moving but her lips and her chest as she uttered the word.

"Diana…the goddess of the moon."

"Oh." She sat up, looked at him. "But, isn't she a virgin?"

His single, fluid movement of pulling on the aforementioned trousers split into two as he paused slightly, caught off-guard by her forwardness. "Venus, then," he amended.

"That's better." She smiled. "No one's ever called me a goddess before, you know."

"There's a first for everything," he said, stooping down to collect his shirt and pulling it on.

She stood, stretching, arching her back and throwing her arms over her head, exposing her naked breasts. "Tonight's full of firsts, isn't it? For both of us."

He looked up at her, previously consumed with buttoning his shirt, but quickly turned his head, thinking she would want some measure of privacy, and not have him ogling her. "Yes. I suppose so." He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his feet, waiting until she got dressed to look up; this being the case, he was startled when the weight center of the mattress shifted, and he felt a lingering kiss on one of his horrific cheeks. He whipped his head around, met her eyes…she was sitting beside him, still naked, now resting her head against his shoulder. He looked at her, merely sitting there, content, and his heart swelled with wonder. How was it that she could be so comfortable with him? How was it that she could tolerate him, could bear to have him touch her…? "Meg?" he said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yes?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Come away with me."

-----

"I'm ready," she said, picking up her bag and turning to face him.

"You're absolutely sure about all of this? There's no turning back, once we leave this room."

"So somber," she remarked with a smile. "Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't have given myself to you, had I not been."

"Very well," he replied, feeling somewhat pleased with himself. His expression softening a little as he looked at her, he continued, "But, I warn you, I cannot promise you a pleasant life."

"I understand."

He nodded, and made his way silently through the house, Meg on his heels. He paused by the front door, waiting for her to put on her shoes.

"Erik?"

He turned around to look at her in the darkness. "Yes?"

"I love you."


	2. Ch 1: Predawn Confession

**Thank you all readers and reviewers! I love you all. Special thanks go to: MJ, phantomluver, Hero Sis, Writer, and trueurbanite, as well as all of those who reviewed the epilogue and have continued on with this from "Desire". I hope this does not disappoint.**

**Also, a lot of this chapter was inspired by stephanie bean's wonderful phic "No End to Longing". Please check out her stuff, it really is quite amazing.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 1

_November 3, 1872_

It was barely dawn, and a muffled silence still hung over the cold streets outside where the autumn stillness vied for attention over the winter's premature assertion of power, manifested through the intricate spider webbing of frost that marked many a window.

It was early yet, but Father Donnelley could not sleep. So, he paced the halls of the small church, meditating in the solace and aloof yet welcoming silence the sturdy stone building offered.

He jumped at the sound of a muffled _bang_, nearly tearing the hem of his newly-earned priest's cassock that trailed on the ground. His blue eyes were round as he surveyed his surroundings a little absurdly, before realizing that someone had entered the church from the back door.

Intrigued, he made his way to the lower level; they made it a practice to keep their doors open and available to all, no matter what hour, but never before in his memory had they received such an early caller…

He made it to the bottom of the staircase in time to hear the familiar swish of heavy red fabric; whoever had come had cloistered themselves in the confessional booth.

He sighed, then made his way over to the other side of the booth, situating himself, lighting a few candles so as to see what he was doing. Once ready, he slid the grille to one side, muttered the prayer, and cleared his throat to signal to the penitent to begin.

He blinked a little stupidly as rapid, barely audible French floated through the partition of the wooden booth and into Father Donnelley's ears. He sighed inwardly, regretting the intrusion, but knowing it was necessary…

"Ma'am?" he asked quietly, his Irish background asserting itself as he spoke.

The flow of the French stopped.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but do you speak English? I can't hear your confession if I'm unable to understand you."

A sort of question came from the other side of the partition.

"Do you speak English?" he asked again, slower this time.

"N-not very well," she replied, her words broken and heavily-accented.

"Wait here," he said, placing an infuriating amount of emphasis on the two words, before standing up and exiting the booth, in search of Father Moreau.

-----

I wasn't deeply religious, not like my mother; never have been, never will. Unlike my fellow Catholics, I detested the traditions, the specialized prayers, the strict ceremony of it all. At this point in my life, however, I had nowhere to look for answers, good, solid, dependable answers, ones that didn't set my head to spinning endlessly, as had become the norm.

So, I waited—more than a little impatiently, I'll admit—for the good priest to fetch someone who could understand me; for, though I had already been living in Brooklyn for a few months, I had only picked up a few select phrases of English. _He _tutored me every chance that he had, and I could understand it well enough, of course, but for some reason I just couldn't wrap my tongue around the pronunciations. As a result, he and I were usually very snappish after the increasingly-brief lessons—he frustrated at my apparent less-than-aptness as a pupil, I perplexed and a little envious of how the language came so easily to him.

He made everything seem so simple. But, for some reason, he was always so critical about himself and how he did things—something I found very endearing, though I'd never dream of telling him that. I stood in awe of his genius, his vast bank of learning that put my humble studies to endless shame, yet he always asked my opinion concerning the broadest spectrum of things imaginable.

I always answered him truthfully. I considered it the most vicious cruelty on my part if I lied to him, even about the simplest of things. Not because of the religious implications of it, no; but the more time I spent with him, the more I came to realize how very fragile he was. He could tear someone to shreds with his thin, strong hands; he could outsmart the most renowned thinkers of his day; his emotional self, however, was very delicate. He lived for praise—mine especially. It wasn't long before I realized what sort of power I wielded, what sort of harm I could do him if I so chose—and shied away from the thought. He had suffered more than enough pain—I would do as much as possible to prevent any from befalling him ever again.

I suppose you could say that I sheltered him. In a way, yes, I did. He preferred it, really; he preferred the solitude, the literal and figurative shadows that concealed him from the ominous glances and opinions that pressed us from all sides. But, I ask, how is it possible to shelter an individual whom already has witnessed so much? He repeatedly brought up the point that he was old enough to be my father, and, though I made light of it, he was right. "With age comes experience," they always say, and never before had they ever been so correct—in the time I had been alive, he'd already traveled most of the world, was an accomplished architect, musician, and God only knew what else.

I was startled from my thoughts by the sound of someone approaching. I waited, tense, alert, and nearly cried for joy when I heard a very hoarse voice begin speaking my native French—I hadn't heard anyone but Erik speak French for nearly six months, and it was a most welcome change.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…"

Such a ponderous list I have accumulated since I have last done this! Longer, I think, than any of mine before. Then again, it has been a rather long time.

"Over two years have passed since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sins: it has been nearly three years since I have last heard Holy Mass…"

I'm not quite sure when, exactly, I stopped attending Mass with my mother. I had never really enjoyed it as a child, having to sit still and hold my tongue while a strange man in an even stranger robe stood before the throngs of people, speaking about things I could rarely comprehend; it got a little better as I got older, of course, but when it came time, I only became confirmed at her insistence.

She never said it, but I always knew I was a great disappointment to her. Now, I realize, that part of the reason why I was so irrevocably sullen as a child is because of this sense of disappointment I felt from her. I had been my father's pride and joy, but after he died and we took up residence in the Opera, my mother was never truly the same. It seemed to me that something was always missing, and, as a result, the softer, tender side of her grew cold and bitter as the years went on.

Things got better after Christine came to us, of course, but even then I was jealous. Everything I couldn't do, it seemed that Christine could, and she earned a substantial amount of my mother's praise.

"Jealousy, Father. I'm afraid I've always had a problem with it, but, as of late, it has become terrible."

"Of whom are you jealous?" the priest asked.

"My childhood friend. She is like a sister to me, but the odds have always seemed to be in her favor."

"What sort of odds, my child?"

"You see, I grew up dancing ballet, back in Paris. My mother was the ballet mistress, and cared for all of us in the _corps_. My friend, after becoming orphaned, came to us, and my mother might as well have adopted her."

"Orphaned? That is hardly something to be jealous of."

"Not that. My mother loved her more than me."

"Did she ever tell you this?"

"No, Father. But I could sense it. Also, I…well, I learned to live with it, but I soon became jealous of something else…"

How could I forget that first night Christine disappeared? I wasn't worried at first…perhaps the handsome Vicomte had noticed her at last. Still, though, I decided to sneak into my mother's room and steal her ring of keys to practically all of the rooms in the vast Opera Populaire…

Christine's dressing room was empty and dark, as well as a little smoky from the extinguished candles. I called her name in a rough whisper a few times before venturing forth.

I distinctly remember my puzzlement at the light behind the mirror; was it a practical joke? A mere quirk of the designer, left untouched and unnoticed until now? Or was there something more sinister at work? My blasted curiosity got the best of me, and I pushed the pane aside, rolling with little resistance on well-oiled tracks.

A powerful wave of sickness overcame me as I stepped into the damp corridor and looked at the back of the pane, realizing I could see into the dressing room. Someone had been spying on Christine! The thought repulsed me. How long had this been going on? She couldn't have been aware of it, she would have told me… The sudden of image of the alcohol-saturated Buquet staring at Christine with his bulging eyes came to me unbidden, and I had to fight the impulse to gag.

Now infinitely more wary than I had been when I first entered the room, I stepped, slowly, down the corridor. The way the drops of water echoed in the otherwise dark silence indicated to me that this strange hallway had been constructed of stone. I longed for a light; my eyes were growing rapidly tired of squinting, but I began to get the feeling that the stone used was not quite the same as the one that made up the rest of the Opera.

I was so intent on my discovery, so caught up in the notions that it presented, that I missed entirely the subtle squeaks of a few rats; I happened to see something move out of the corner of my eye, causing me to scream, even more so when I realized what they were.

My nerves were already strung out so tight that I jumped nearly a full meter into the air when I felt the cold hand on my shoulder. But, as I soon found out, it was nothing more than my mother, steering me back to safety…

"_But, Maman, Christine has gone missing!"_ I protested angrily once we were inside the dressing room. I glared accusingly at the elaborate mirror that hung on the wall opposite me, now looking normal and as it did every day, all traces of the mysterious light gone.

"_Even so, that is no excuse…Meg, you could have been killed! How were you to know what was behind that mirror, or down that corridor?"_ she said, and I had to acknowledge that she had a point; even so, I was intrigued and a little distressed at her seeming lack of concern for the real victim of the moment.

"_But do you not fear for Christine? What if—what if, as you said, she is dead, this very minute? We are not helping her by talking—"_ I replied, impassioned, and strode back over to the suspicious mirror.

My mother's response was to grab me firmly by the upper arm. Spinning me around to look at her, she whispered, harshly, _"She is not in any danger. If you breathe even one word of this to anyone, Marguerite, I swear…"_ She sighed then, releasing her hold on me, wiping her hand wearily across her brow. _"I am only trying to protect you, le petite. Please, don't make this any harder than it already is."_

"_You know who has her?"_ I asked, incredulous.

She swept out of the room then, but the look in her eyes as she turned from me was unmistakable.

That night was my first official brush with the Phantom of the Opera.

"An…an admirer, of sorts."

"Romantically inclined, I presume?"

"Yes, Father. Also, I…I lusted after him. Many times."

"Are you married?"

"Yes, but I wasn't at the time."

"And what of him? Is he married?"

I smirked in triumph, realizing the irony of it all. "Yes. To me."

The priest coughed suddenly; he wasn't expecting that, I knew. "I see. And, these sins, were they of thought, word, or deed?"

I blushed. "Thought. Mostly."

"'Mostly'?" I imagine he raised an eyebrow at that.

"Deed. Twice…no, a few times before we were married. I don't remember."

"Anything else, my child?"

"A lie…I told a lie to protect him, the one I mentioned."

"Protect him?"

"Yes, Father. He…he was at odds with the law, for several things."

"Did you participate in any of these crimes?"

"No, Father. I did, however, help him leave the country."

"Can the affects of the lie be remedied?"

"I told those who I lied to the truth before I left, in the form of a letter, but I'm not sure if they informed the authorities."

"It is good you have done this, my child. Though lying stains the tongue, revealing the truth is a step towards redemption. Have you anything else to confess?"

"No; for those sins that I mentioned, those of my whole life, and any that I have forgotten, I am deeply sorry, and ask for pardon and penance…"

-----

After completing my penance—which was, I thought, minimal, compared to what I had done—I wrapped my coat around me and stepped from the church, the door closing behind me, cutting me off from the warmth and leaving me in the cold of the street. The sun had risen, but the frost still nipped, and I shivered—not only because of the cold, but also because I knew Erik would be angry if he knew where I had been.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, the cold air biting into my lungs, I walked down the street, back towards the small apartment that I now called my home, back towards the strange man that I now called my husband.


	3. Ch 2: A Dangerous Combination

**Thanks to: Hero Sis, MJ, Writer, E/MOTP, Fancy-Pants Lockhart love the penname!, Virginie, and poof. Also thanks to all the lovely readers; the support is much appreciated.**

**...some sexual tension for you.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 2

I was an early riser; you were far from it, preferring to spend as much time in bed as possible, asleep or no. I couldn't fathom why on earth you would want to waste the day away in such a manner; perhaps this trait is exclusive to the female race, I have no idea.

When I awoke that morning, however, you were gone. Puzzled, I looked towards the window, trying to gage the time by the amount of feeble light filtering through the shade.

Unsuccessful, I rose, walking to the window, gazing out through the pane; the corners were marked by frosty, delicate cobwebs of ice, and my breath condensed on the glass, so cold was it outside. The blue, quiet light marked the hour sometime before dawn.

Contrary to what you believed—to what everyone believed, I suspect—I loved this time of day. The cloak of night, the cover of inky blackness was my companion, reliable, trusty. The blinding light of noon—nay, of the whole day, right up until sunset—was my sworn enemy, vicious, cunning. Sunset was far too gaudy, as was the sunrise—twilight made me restless. The quiet, pre-light of dawn, however, was calming, soothing, very much a balm to my torment. It reminded me of a caress.

It reminded me of you.

You were such a mystery to me. I continue to wonder whether or not this all has been nothing but a dream; whether or not you truly exist.

Whether or not you truly love me.

I find it unbelievable, of course. How could you even begin to love me, to want me, even? But there you were all the same, curled up next to me each morning, your eyes closed in blissful slumber, a peace reflected in every feature that I cannot even begin to describe.

Except that morning. Where could you have gone? I knew there was no need to be troubled, but fear quickly blossomed in my chest. Our apartment was empty; perhaps you had gone outside for a quick breath of air?

I waited. It was dismal. I dressed quickly, then sat at the edge of the bed—_our_ bed, I had to keep reminding myself, the bed you shared willingly with me—trying to keep myself occupied, but the thoughts wouldn't leave me alone. Had you finally had enough? Had you come to your senses, repulsed to find a monster at your side?

An hour passed, and I took to pacing, fretfully, my thoughts growing more frenzied by the minute. What had become of you? Were you injured? Dead? How ironic, I thought, that just at the moment when I was becoming accustomed to happiness, you were taken from me.

I soon heard your step in the hallway. Your gait is peculiar, my dear; the most peculiar I've ever known in my life. Your step is even, and your quiet grace is immediately evident. There is a touch of heaviness in your step, however, a strength that mirrors your firm resolve, your stubbornness that both annoys and captivates me to no end.

I took a seat in a small wooden chair facing the door, crossing my arms, waiting. You attempted to open the door silently, wincing as it squeaked on its hinges instead. You set your coat aside with a sigh; you didn't seem surprised to see me.

"I wonder," I said, "if you enjoy tormenting me."

You lowered your gaze—usually so defiant, so full of life—to the floor in genuine guilt. "I'm sorry, Erik."

I shook my ghastly head, my temper flaring. "Where were you?"

You didn't react favorably to the hostile, interrogative tone—entirely my fault. "I don't see how that is any of your concern."

I stood, breathing hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control; it wasn't working very well. "Oh, really? Do you really believe that, Meg?"

You wavered, but only a little. "Yes."

"Then you are mistaken. Your whereabouts are very much a large portion of my concern, considering the…circumstances."

You flushed, angry, impassioned, but your words were unbelievably cool. "The present 'circumstances' are entirely your doing, Erik. I could care less."

Your words were meant to sting, and they did. Wounded, I did the only thing I knew how to do—lash out. "I was under the impression that you wanted it."

"I don't want anything from you—not if you're going to be like this."

I advanced menacingly. "You should have been aware of what you were getting yourself into. Then again, I can hardly expect awareness from you, now, can I?"

You stood your ground, really angry this time; I could see it in your eyes. "It's inconsiderate, to flaunt your superiority like that."

"You think I give a damn about whether or not I'm inconsiderate? I am capable of much more than that," I said, my voice quiet, recalling memories that I knew frightened you.

You sighed; I could see you were trying to be strong, but your voice shook. "This is stupid…why are we fighting?"

I completely side-stepped your pathetic attempt at making peace. "You instigated our argument by leaving me."

Outraged, you retorted, "For God's sake, Erik! I didn't _leave_ you! I needed to do something! Or do you _want_ me to leave?"

"Save yourself the effort, Madame," I spat.

"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean?"

"If you'd use your head for once, my previous comment should have indicated my intentions."

You stared at me, shocked into silence.

"I'm going for a walk," I said, and grabbing my cloak, hastily unlatched the door, yanked it open, and slammed it in your face.

I contemplated not locking it, leaving you at the mercy of fate, of bad circumstance, but I—figuratively, of course—turned my nose up at the thought. I locked the door and stalked off, anger seething through my veins, but your sweet, angelic face staring at me was imprinted in my mind; it seemed I wouldn't be escaping from you so easily, after all.

-----

I hadn't expected him to leave, of course. In the sudden silence, I released all of my pent up rage, my fear, my frustration at him in the form of a pitiful strangled yell and several hits at the feeble chair he'd been sitting in when I returned. That done, my hands probably bruised from where they had solidly connected with the wood, I launched myself at the large bed, buried my face into a pillow, and cried, suddenly feeling very exhausted…

I woke to silence. I looked around, rather blearily; I grimaced at what I probably looked like, my eyes puffy and red from crying, wrinkles impressed into my cheek from the fabric of the pillow, my hair a veritable mess of tangles. I groaned, rolled over onto my other side, my back facing the front door. I pondered getting up and straightening myself out, but I heard the door swing open and closed, the lock sliding into place—he'd returned.

My immediate thought was to spring up, to throw myself into his arms, to beg forgiveness. It would be all too easy; I had surrendered all control of my emotions to him long ago. Yet something held me back, and, a little tense, I waited, pretending to sleep.

He sighed quietly; I could feel his eyes boring into my back. Silence, then; I couldn't even hear the sound of his breathing. I was tempted to turn my head only a little, to pretend to shift in my sleep, so I could squint through my eyes, look at him, but I kept still, barely breathing.

Suddenly, he was beside me; I could feel him. He didn't touch me, but the peculiar radiation of cold that I found so fascinating brushed against the skin of my arms, and I fought the impulse to shiver, convinced that any movement on my part would dispel the peace, the quiet between us.

"What am I to do with you, Little Meg?" he asked, very quietly, only a breath of air compared to the words we'd thundered at each other before. I felt his fingers in my hair, gently smoothing out the tangles. "How did your hair get to be like this, my dear?" He brushed a lock behind my ear, slowly tilting my face in his direction. "Were you crying again? My poor Little Meg, crying for her poor, unhappy Erik…you must forgive Erik, my dear, he means you no harm. But you must know how terrible Erik's temper is…" He brushed his fingertips against my cheek before lightly circling my neck with his long hands. "Yes, Erik's temper is ghastly. But your's is, too…that's what gets us into such trouble, is it not? Poor, unhappy Erik has met his match with Little Meg…"

The pure, soothing musicality of his whispers threatened to truly send me off to sleep, but his touch quickly led my thoughts down another path. Oh, this man! I didn't merely _want_ him, no; I _burned_ for him. And, for the life of me, I couldn't begin to fathom why; we'd just been arguing, for God's sake! It was only when he began lightly tracing my collarbones with his fingers that I suddenly realized that I couldn't properly remember the last time I'd been with him…

My heart threatened to stop when I felt the cool, dry skin of his cheek pressed against mine. "Wake up, Little Meg," he said, now showering light kisses all over my face and hair. "Erik has something to ask you."

My breath stuck in my throat as my eyelids fluttered open, seemingly of their own accord. I turned towards him; as a result of the movement, his lips brushed accidentally against mine, sending shockwaves of heat all throughout me, and I could see from his eyes that something similar had happened in him as well.

"Meg," he said, his voice suddenly very husky.

"Erik." I spoke his name slowly, meeting his gaze, holding it. There would be no misunderstandings, not now, not like earlier.

"I'm sorry…please forgive me, I was acting rash."

_What else is new?_ I thought, but said, "Already forgiven." His expression became puzzled, so I continued, "I wasn't sleeping…I heard you."

"Ah."

I sat up, genuinely interested. "Do you do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Talk to me when I sleep."

He looked away briefly, embarrassed. "Yes."

I grinned. "Have you really 'met your match' when it comes to me?"

He scowled, but the look in his golden eyes was peculiar… "Met my death, you mean. Really, Meg, you are the most stubborn person I know—apart from myself, that is."

"A dangerous combination, we are," I remarked, fingering a lock of my hair, distractedly picking out a tangle.

"Indeed."

"Explosive," I muttered, smirking.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," I said. He looked away, pensive, but I kept my gaze on him.

"Goddammit, Meg, why must you continue to stare at me? Am I an animal in a zoo that you feel the need to do so?" he snapped after a few moments of silence.

I sighed, getting frustrated; he really couldn't take a hint, could he? "Would you prefer that? I'm sure we could find a suitable one for you."

He glared at me, positively seething with rage, and I laughed, hoping against all hope that he would calm down. Why on earth was it so ridiculously enjoyable to play with fire? But I didn't care whether or not I was burned; that was the most exhilarating part.

"I'm sorry," I said, contrite. "I shouldn't have said that."

He took a few deep breaths through the gaping hole that was his nose before quipping, "Please, at least try and _sound_ convincing, if only for my benefit."

"You told me, once, that I was a terrible actress."

He paused, as if thinking, struggling to remember. "So I did. And I won't hesitate to say it again; criticism is important for one's well-being," he said, mockingly.

"Only if _you_ get to be the critic," I retorted sourly, folding my arms defensively in front of my chest.

"Precisely. I'm actually quite surprised that anything managed to get through that impenetrable skull of yours," he said, his frame shaking with repressed laughter.

"I can truthfully say the same about you; though not about your intellect."

His harsh features softened a little. "Really?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He smirked, wicked, triumphant. "Prove it."


	4. Ch 3: Past, Present, and Future

**Thank you all so very much for your support! Special thanks go to: Writer, E/MOTP, Virginie, Hero Sis, poof, PrincessSYS, and all of the lovely readers! Huggles for all.**

**Just for clarification: any large blocks of text set in italics from this point forward are flashbacks/past action. Since many of you won't leave me alone in regards to what happened to Erik and Meg between the end of "Desire" and the beginning of "Devotion", I've decided it would be a good idea to provide this information, as it will be alluded to in further chapters. Also, since this chapter can get sort of confusing, anything that ISN'T in italics picks up immediately from the end of the last chapter, so you might want to read the last few lines again so everything flows smoothly.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing. I also think many of you will be surprised (perhaps even disappointed?) as to what happens in this chapter, all things considered...

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chapter 3

_"How long has it been, do you think?" she asked, sidestepping a patch of mud._

_He looked back at her for a moment, considering. "An hour, I believe."_

_Her expression sobered. "She would've found it by now…"_

_"Found what?" he asked, then stopped in his tracks. "You left a note." His tone was accusatory._

_She brushed past him, contemplating the riverbank beneath her feet. "Yes."_

_"You fool!" he hissed, overtaking her in a matter of seconds, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "What did it say?" he demanded._

_She looked him full in the face. "Nothing but the truth. About you."_

_If possible, his expression darkened even further; he let her go, almost disgusted. "Incompetent…" he muttered, stalking away purposefully._

_She sighed, struggling to catch up with him. "Erik…"_

_"You will be silent for the rest of the trip," he said curtly._

_"As if you can make me," she whispered under her breath, but said a little louder, "Fine. But the minute we reach Le Havre…"_

_He turned on his heel abruptly, waiting until she was standing immediately in front of him. "When we reach Le Havre, I will let you reevaluate your decision."_

_She sighed, shifting her small duffle bag on her shoulder, already knowing what she would say; she couldn't leave him, not now, not ever. "Very well."_

_In a sudden, uncharacteristic show of affection, he bent down and kissed the top of her head. "Come; we still have many kilometers to travel, and the night is fading fast."_

_-----_

"Prove it?" I asked, putting on a shocked expression, but secretly pleased. "I wasn't aware that I had that sort of power."

That threw him off, just a bit. "What?"

"The power to worm my way inside another's mind. I thought that was reserved specifically for you."

He drew in a sudden breath, but that's all I noticed of his apparent discomfort with the way our conversation had turned. "You're quite right. And it's something that I use shamelessly."

"What am I thinking now, then? Right this very second?"

"What indeed?" he asked, trailing a single finger down my cheek and neck, causing me to shiver.

It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing myself at his feet. "Well? I'm waiting."

He shook his head, taking my chin in his grasp and turning my face up towards his. "You are far too obstinate for your own good, Meg."

"I know."

"It'll get you in trouble, one day," he said, any and all amusement in his voice gone as he spoke. "Serious trouble."

"The worst of that is over, I think," I mused, looking into his eyes for clarification.

The mismatched orbs shone coldly in their sockets. "No," he disagreed, moving away from me and off of the bed altogether, much to my disappointment. He appraised me sadly from where he now stood across the room. "The worst has yet to begin."

-----

_"Hold still, will you?" he snapped, but caught her around the waist just the same, keeping her steady._

_"Erik," she moaned, holding her head with one hand and clutching his arm for support with the other. "I don't like this…"_

_"Good God, Meg, to think a dancer would have such an atrocious sense of balance."_

_"At least the stage didn't _move_," she retorted feebly, her voice hoarse. "Please tell me that the next won't be this bad…"_

_"No, it shouldn't."_

_"We should have waited for the next ship," she whispered, sitting on the small bunk bolted onto the wall. The thin mattress squeaked beneath her, and her vision spun and her stomach lurched as the ship creaked and fought its way through the choppy waters outside._

_"And risk being caught?"_

_"It has to be better than this."_

_"The way things are turning out leaves something to be desired," he agreed, sitting down awkwardly next to her; his legs seemed abnormally long compared to hers in the cramped space. "Then again, you didn't have to come."_

_Her eyes flashed angrily as she glared at him for a moment. "We've been over this," she said, then returned to wallowing in her misery, anything to keep her mind off of the constant movement of the waves, the incessant churning of the deck below her—_

_Her arms wrapped around her middle, she sprang up from where she'd been sitting before, ran unsteadily to the far corner of the room, and bent over the rather large, unsightly bucket, trying her best to stifle the sounds of her retching._

_Erik looked away, not out of some compulsion to be polite, nor awkwardness; in all actuality, the sight made him sick. To think that the mighty Opera Ghost, the ruthless torturer, the cold-blooded murderer could be swayed so easily…_

_He stared at the floor, ignoring the sounds from the corner, concentrating instead on the peculiar reverberations of the timber around him. He closed his eyes, lulled into a stupor by the rocking motion of the craft, the singing of the decks…this certainly brought back memories, some more pleasant than others._

_"You're lucky," she rasped, and he raised his head to look at her. It appeared she'd rinsed her mouth out with the help of the spigot—the sound of the water must have escaped his notice—and was clumsily drying her face with a sleeve of her dress; the rag hanging limply on its bar by the faucet looked far from sanitary. "You're lucky you're not like me, and don't get sick all over the place…"_

_He straightened up, slow and deliberate, turning his death's head to meet her gaze more adequately. "I hardly consider a small bout of seasickness worthy of such discussion, considering the circumstances."_

_She blushed, realizing too late the absurdity of the comment with regards to the intended receiver. "Oh, I… I suppose you're right."_

_He bit back a chuckle, maintaining with utmost ease the tense outer façade. "I'm always right. And your coloring looks ghastly…green and red don't suit you at all."_

_This made her blush even more, and she slowly approached him, sitting gingerly next to him, still aware of the movements of the ship. "I would say the same," she said sweetly, tentatively edging closer to him, "but that would be terribly rude of me."_

_He shook his head, looking away. "You're horrible."_

_She gently laid her head against his thin shoulder. "I know."_

_He looked at her, never ceasing to be amazed that she was here, next to him. He brought his face to her hair, kissing the top of her head._

_"Always my head," she sighed, not without a touch of bitterness._

_"I don't like to rush things."_

_She laughed at this. "Oh, yes, well, I suppose that making love and fleeing the country with me isn't rushing things at all."_

_He scowled. "A lapse of judgment on my part. As for fleeing the country, that would be a clear lapse of intelligence and common sense on your part."_

_"Are you saying I'm stupid?" she demanded._

_"For choosing me, for choosing this? Yes. No one in their right mind would," he retorted, thoughts growing bleak._

_Despite what he said, Meg was shrewd enough to know where his thoughts had led him. "Well, think of it this way," she said, determined to remedy the growing gap in their conversation. "Now you'll have someone to accompany you in prison. An accomplice, you know."_

_"One that won't_ shut up_ and leave me to my thoughts, one that insists on sticking her nose into _everything_ and _prying_ into every aspect of _my_ life," he said sourly, glaring at her._

_"Pardon me, then," she said coldly, making to stand and leave the room, but at that moment the ship lurched violently, and, bewildered, she wound up sitting in his lap._

_He roared with laughter. "Christ, Meg, you're hopeless," he gasped._

_She smiled in spite of herself. "We're a good match, then," she said, self-consciously sliding off of him._

_"That's what you think."_

-----

"What makes you say that?" I asked, perplexed at his mood and cryptic comments.

He sighed. "Never mind, Meg. Just leave it alone." He turned from me and made his way over to the table in the corner of the large room, rifling through a messy stack of paper—his new compositions.

I now recognized just what sort of mood he was in—pensive, bitter, and just a little remorseful—and I knew for certain what (_who_, rather) he was thinking about. I also knew better than to bother him during such times, but something led me to follow him.

He had by now seated himself stiffly in a chair, and he stiffened even more when he felt me standing behind him. "Please, leave me alone, Meg," he said. "You and I will both regret it if you don't."

"Will you, though?" I wondered aloud.

He spun around to face me, extremely angry, I knew, but expending a huge amount of effort in keeping calm. "Yes," he replied through clenched teeth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a song to write."

"I'll keep that in mind. I have a favor to ask of you, though."

"What is it?" he asked, still staring at me, still annoyed.

"Write _me_ a song one day." I placed particular emphasis on the 'me', my eyes communicating that I knew full well who these compositions were for, and why he wrote them. "Not now…just…eventually."

His eyes grew soft, the cold aloofness breached, but only a little. "I will," he whispered, then turned away from me, his shoulders slumping as he bent over his work.

Make no mistake: I intend to hold him to that promise.


	5. Ch 4: Christine Revisited

**A Big Thank-You to: phantomluver, Hero Sis, Writer, Virginie, E/MOTP, smoking caramels (thank you), trueurbanite, PrincessSYS (thank you...but you must be patient! I'll get there...eventually... **-_**winks**-_**), and all the lovely readers!**

**I decided to negate my little note of the past chapter, regarding the "large blocks of italics"...but just for this chapter. Since this whole chapter is comprised of a series of flashbacks (taken from "Desire", of course), any blocks of italics (except for one) for THIS chapter only signify dreams (as you shall soon see).**

**As already mentioned, this chapter is again comprised of select excerpts from "Desire" with a few augmentations for purposes of consistency and keeping you on your toes.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 4

She was anxious, she was overwrought. She'd long lost all sense of time as numbness settled over her, cloaking her, concealing her thoughts and emotions as she'd never before been able to alone. A week, a month, two? She had no idea.

She was bitter, she was frightened. But she couldn't stop; she had to continue searching. When the police hadn't been able to find any evidence, any sort of clue, vowing they'd continue searching but secretly crossing their fingers behind their backs, giving it up as a lost cause, she refused to believe them. Though each day spent searching was a day further from her wedding, she was consumed with the task, feeling wholly responsible for the disappearance.

And it truly was a "disappearance" in every sense of the word. It was as if all trace of Meg had been totally wiped from the face of the Earth.

But Christine knew better.

That's why she was here, in this carriage, alone, staring out at the chillingly familiar surroundings as she was inexorably drawn towards her final destination.

She'd been avoiding it, but the memories constantly haunted her. At first, she'd voiced her fears and thoughts to Raoul, and he sympathized with her, always taking her into his arms, despite the hurt that she knew he must be feeling each time she mentioned…

That's why she'd stopped. Sweet, kind Raoul didn't need anymore torture, not after all he'd been though, all he'd suffered, all for her, all to get her back. She felt guilty.

That's also why she'd repeatedly offered herself to him. She felt as if she owed him something, anything, always conscious of the fact that the day she could finally be with him, as sanctioned by the Church, was definitely not any time in the near future. But he always refused, saying he couldn't possibly disgrace her, _defile_ her in such a manner, that he was content to wait, that time would make it infinitely sweeter than if they hadn't held back.

Now, she wondered whether _he_ would have refused; he, the one constantly in her thoughts, always looming in the back of her mind, resurfacing with the darkness, a bitter aftertaste of emotion and memory.

The carriage came to a stop, and she got out, pausing, hesitating only for a moment before making her way quickly up the ash-stained, neglected, yet still magnificent front entrance of the Opera Populaire.

-----

She reached the doors quickly, looking around her warily at the dusky surrounding streets before tugging the door open and slipping inside. It closed behind her with a muffled but ominous _boom_.

The first thing she registered was the cold. Then came the smell; the pervasive smell of burnt, of ashes, even of decay. She stared in awe; she'd never seen the front foyer clothed in such darkness before. Her small, feeble steps echoed hugely in the morbid splendor that surrounded her on all sides, and she had an overwhelming memory of a place very similar to this one, encased in darkness, in damp, but several levels below…

She shook her head, sending her auburn curls bouncing, trying to clear her thoughts. But it was simply no use. As if the phantoms of memory had drawn a sudden, perverse strength at her return to their birthplace, they refused to be held back, suffocating her with all manner of sight, and sound, and smell, and _touch_…

It took all of her strength to take another step forward, towards the grand staircase, thinking upwards, always upwards, neutralizing the constant pull at the center of her being dragging her down and back into the crushing, beautiful abyss of his domain.

She placed a pale hand on the banister, noting the substantial cloaking of silt and ash against the once-shining gold and the trembling of her fingers. She drew a deep breath, despite the horrible smell, and took another step forward, her small shoe making a single imprint on the marble, almost as if she were walking on sand.

A gentler, more amiable wave of memory overcame her then, that of her father, and his ever-singing violin; of Raoul, rescuing her renegade scarf from the ravages of wind and sea…and she clung to them, drawing strength as she made her way slowly, grandly up.

She wasn't sure what she searched for. All she knew was that Meg _had_ to be alive.

-----

About an hour later, exhausted, hungry, and disconsolate, Christine emerged from the drafty entombment of the Opera House to the freedom of the streets. Sighing, she sat down on the uppermost step, resting her elbows on her knees and her face against her fists, thinking.

She hadn't found anything. Any sort of clue, any sign of life; nothing whatsoever.

A group of people, laughing gaily, caught her attention as they moved down the street. They looked to be of the upper class; they certainly were dressed as such…she could almost hear the rustling of the ladies' skirts, the crisp _swish_ of the gentlemen's evening clothes as they moved down the boulevard, a remnant of the splendor this district had once been, the huge stone monolith of the Opera the crowning pinnacle.

That's when she saw them.

She hadn't quite noticed when the two figures had joined the group of aristocrats, but they were now breaking ranks, quietly and stealthily, walking quickly up the street, right past her. One of the figures—a tall, abnormally lanky man dressed in evening clothes and a widely-brimmed hat—had no problem fitting in with the crowd he'd just emerged from, but something…something about the other…her swift, quiet, graceful movements…the hem of the tattered-looking skirt that brushed against the ground, almost as if too big for her…the hair, the long, blonde hair that glimmered in a sudden patch of moonlight as she moved, trying her best to keep up with the man, now several paces ahead—

"Meg!" she cried, shattering the air with her incredulous, joyful cry. She watched as both figures stopped dead in their tracks, the first soon resuming his speedy clip up the street, fading into the shadows, leaving his companion standing alone.

-----

_There was light ahead, she knew it, but it was hidden, cloaked by the darkness. She strove for it, reaching out blindly, each and every one of her senses attuned to the single goal; she must reach the light._

_Why, then, did she have this overwhelming need to turn around and look behind her? The light was to be reached by stepping forward, so what was to be gained by looking backward?_

_She continued on, but still the doubt assailed her, diluting her persistence and sense with a siren's call. What did it hurt if she looked back? What did she have to lose? It was only darkness, after all…_

_So she looked. And she instantly regretted it._

_His eyes, always his eyes, staring silently, pleading with her to return, to come back to her Master, her Angel. "Christine," he called, his voice doing what his eyes alone could not._

_Her feet immediately began to turn around of their own accord, taking her back to him. But no! She must fight, she must continue towards the light, no matter how much she wanted to run back to him, no matter how much her heart cried out in frustration…_

"_Christine," he called again, and she closed her eyes, her hands covering her ears, anything to forget the sweetest sound ever uttered on earth, her name pure music from the lips of an angel, catching her and caressing her, holding her in place, bidding her to stay._

_Her heart stopped when she felt the cold fingers around her wrists, gently prying her hands away from her ears. "Christine is being naughty," the voice whispered. It was tinged with menace, with anger, but it was still so beautiful, so intoxicating, and she shivered. "Christine belongs to Erik now, Christine should not be leaving…"_

_The hands were on her shoulders now, turning her around. "Christine must look at Erik," said the voice, the angel. "Christine must look at her poor Erik, and Christine must promise not to leave ever again."_

_She nodded, her throat dry, her head spinning, but still she kept her eyes closed._

"_Open your eyes, Christine," he breathed._

_Overwhelmed, she obeyed, but regretted it as she was faced once more with the horrible, skeletal face that would haunt her for an eternity…_

With a gasp, she sat up like a shot, breathing hard. She ran her hand through her hair, the last remnants of the dream fading, but the feeling she was being watched suddenly pervasive. Paranoid, she looked around, but a split second later realized that she was safe, that he couldn't possibly be watching her…

Earlier, when Meg had been telling her story, she'd pressed her hands to her mouth in horror as her friend described how she'd run after him the night of the Opera disaster, how, in his madness, he'd tried to strangle her. When asked why she didn't leave when she'd first come to, she said that she couldn't bring herself to leave him, much as she wanted to, and resolved to stay until he let her go.

"He finally let you go, then?" inquired Raoul, shaken to the core by the tale, but the only one at the moment able to bring himself to speak coherently.

Meg looked down in her lap before slowly shaking her head. "He…he's…dead. He's dead."

Madame Giry had drawn a painful breath at that, but immediate relief flooded Christine's veins. Free, she was finally free…

But, why, then, if she were truly free, did he and his voice still haunt her?

She shook her head, trying to purge the images, the sensations, away from her mind, a different picture presenting itself to her now.

Meg had said he'd died. Who, then, was that tall, strange man she'd seen on the street earlier? Could it be…?

But no. Meg had no reason to lie; if he were still alive, she would have told them.

Reassured, but only slightly, she climbed out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and left her room silently, in search of the one who would offer her not only the reassurance that she was safe, but true, undying love as well.

She padded quietly from her room, the lush carpet cradling the soles of her bare feet as she crept down the hall and knocked softly at the door at the far end, the one leading to Raoul's private sitting room.

The knock was answered promptly, but her presence took a split second more to register. His eyes growing wide, he ushered her in, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the pair of them were unobserved before shutting and locking the door.

"Christine, what are you doing here?" he asked as she made herself comfortable in an armchair by the lit fireplace.

She looked up at him as he approached. "I couldn't get to sleep."

He sat across from her in another armchair. "Another dream?"

"Yes."

Anger bubbled up in him for a moment; how long would it take before she could come to him without having to seek solace, an excuse to drive another from her thoughts? But the voice of reason swiftly asserted itself, pointing out that it wasn't her fault that she'd been so ruthlessly preyed upon, and that it was his duty to protect her, to ensure that it never happened again.

Giving a resigned sigh, he said, "Him again?"

"You sound angry."

The words tumbled out before he had the chance to restrain them. "Well, I should say so! Even in _death_ he still wields power over you—"

"I didn't come here to be _lectured_," she retorted, standing, trying her best to be genuinely outraged, but tears clamoring for purchase at her eyes.

In one swift movement, he caught her up in a warm embrace. "I know, Christine. It…it's just so hard…I always keep picturing the two of you that night, on stage…"

"Oh, God, Raoul, I'm so sorry…I should have done something, you never deserved—"

"Shhh…" he said, caressing her brown curls. "It's not your fault."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks streaked with them, and she whispered, "Please…let me do something…"

He kissed her. "You can't make up for the past, Christine, just let it go."

"I can't," she breathed, kissing him back. "I can't let go; he won't let me…"

He brought her closer. "What can I do to help?"

She was silent for a while, and when she finally did answer, it was barely more than an exhale of breath. "Take me; please…make me completely yours."

"But…Christine, I can't do that; we should wait—"

She smiled at him. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

-----

"_Christine."_

_Not his voice this time, a welcome change._

"_Christine, listen to me."_

"_I am listening," she said, perplexed, looking around. Where was the voice coming from?_

"_No, you're not. I need you to listen, to really listen."_

"_I…I'll try, Meg."_

"_Trying won't be good enough, Christine," the voice said, gentle. Sad. "You must swear to me that you'll listen."_

"_I swear it," she replied fervently._

"_Thank you…"_

Her eyes flew open, a sense of foreboding coming to her, overwhelming in its strength and tenure. She sat up from where she'd been lying, looked around; Raoul hadn't come to bed yet. What could be keeping him?

Perplexed, she ran a hand through her unruly curls, quickly climbing out of bed, slipping into her dressing gown, and venturing out of the room and into the empty corridor.

She could hear voices coming from downstairs, and she sailed down the hall and staircase as fast as her feet could carry her, following the muffled sounds coming from one of the private sitting rooms.

"Raoul?" she asked softly, pushing open the door.

He looked up, surprised, anxious. He'd been stooping over something on the floor, but from her vantage point in the threshold she couldn't see what—or _who_. "Go back to bed," he mouthed at her, but she shook her head, resolutely stepping inside the room.

She almost wished she hadn't.

The words were stuck in her throat, cleaving, heaving, struggling to escape, to take flight and be given voice, but the effort was far too much. So she simply stared for a moment, taking in the scene around her, her mind numb and refusing to accept the only possibility this scenario presented; after all, one did not deserve to live through the same nightmare twice…

Madame Giry had seemingly collapsed on the floor, her frame heaving with sobs. Christine had never before seen anything more horrific; this woman was her mother figure, had been for years her source of strength and wisdom and comfort, and it seemed to Christine that her ordered world had transformed into a spinning vortex of confusion and anarchy as she watched.

She knelt and placed a comforting hand on one of the woman's shaking shoulders, keeping silent, but saying more than she ever could have hoped to communicate through the kind gesture. She kept her hand there, occasionally moving it back and forth, sometimes in small circular movements, attempting to calm her down.

The sobbing eventually quieted, and silence reigned for a moment, a moment in which Christine managed to rediscover her voice. "Tell me what's wrong, _Maman_," she said gently.

The request was met only with a resurgence of sobs, each more bitter than the last, but from underneath the crumpled figure a worn, firm hand snaked out, releasing its death-grip on a small piece of stationary paper.

Christine took the paper from her gently, and she could feel Raoul moving closer from where he'd retreated into the far corner as she looked down at it.

The handwriting was immediately familiar to her, which, considering the present circumstances, did not exactly bode well. But the sight of her name scrawled on one side caught her attention. _To Maman and Christine_, the paper read, bare on that side except for the neat script that had been Meg's trademark.

Taking a deep breath, feeling Raoul's hand on her shoulder, she flipped the paper over to read the rest of the note.

_I hope you both have it in your hearts to forgive me. Please know that I have just made one of the toughest decisions of my life, one that I realize will have many repercussions, possibly for the worse, but I beg your forgiveness, as well as God's, for I have sinned grievously in the past week since I have returned._

_Please don't forget me…I'll think of you both, always._

_My mind is filled with sorrow as I write this, not only for you, but someone else I've wronged in the process, someone I was only trying to protect. Please understand that I meant no malevolence…_

_I lied to you. _

_He lives still._


	6. Ch 5: Speech Disappears into Silence

**I'm ba-ack...**

**Yes, one and all, I'm back from my spring break, armed with a new chapter! Yes, I know, you love me... ;)**

**Thanks and cyber-huggles to: my lovely Hero Sis (missed you!), E/MOTP (lol), trueurbanite (thank you...oh, and you'll see what I'm getting at later, but I couldn't resist...), Virginie (haha), phantomluver (thank you), PrincessSYS, QueenIsuralia (thank you for your review, and I'm glad you like it), and, of course, the readers... I love you guys!**

**oh...just a head's up: there's a new character that gets introduced in this chapter. and trust me when I say this: they're not nearly as "new" as you're thinking...**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 5

_Christine gazed pensively out the window of her room, eyes swollen from a combination of exhaustion and tears._

"_You've left us again," she whispered bitterly to the surrounding silence. "You've left us again, this time for good."_

_Now, at least, she knew the meaning of her dream of the night before…but could she live with this knowledge? Could she live, knowing that her best friend had condemned herself to a lifetime of certain pain and suffering, knowing that she, Christine, had been sworn to passive silence?_

_At least she didn't have to worry about Erik now._

_But that had never been the case, had it? If she really thought about it, had there ever really been a time when she'd been worried about what Erik would do to her…what Erik would do to Raoul?_

_No._

_She didn't have to worry about Erik. She had to worry about herself._

* * *

He'd told me to be quiet, to leave him alone, so, I did. But, having nothing to do otherwise, I watched him. 

I'd never seen him quite like that before. He must have really been inspired this time; otherwise, he would have left his chair and taken to pacing, sometimes muttering or humming something under his breath.

Though it's a constant challenge, he was always happiest while he composed; I suspect that the challenge is why he enjoyed it so much.

The seconds dragged like hours, the hours like centuries, but at last, he stood. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he was breathing deeply, his back to me.

I approached him hesitantly; he was always the most unpredictable after these spells of composition. Laying a hand on his arm, I said, "Erik?"

He looked at me.

"Erik, would you like something…some water, perhaps?"

He blinked a few times, saying nothing, then his eyes widened a little, almost as if he were seeing me for the first time. "What?" he said. "Oh…oh, yes, Meg, that would be wonderful."

Concerned, I hurried into the small pantry, grabbing the first thing I could find from off the shelf—a chipped mug—and poured some water from the large pitcher in the corner. Out of habit, I peeked into the barrel of flour next to it—we were almost out. I made a mental note to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Valerius, our landlady, if I could borrow some before hurrying back to him.

He took it gratefully, downing it in a matter of seconds before near-collapsing in the chair again; I noticed that he had turned it around at some point while I had been gone, so its back rested against the edge of the desk. He looked quite shaken.

"Are you all right?" I asked, now substantially worried.

"I'm fine," he said, closing his eyes.

I peeked at the pile of papers on the desk behind him, covered with music notes and strange symbols and notes in the margins scrawled in his now-familiar childish hand, before slowly lowering myself to my knees; with him constantly towering over me, I felt uncomfortable otherwise. "You're sure?"

"Are you, or are you not, able to exist without asking an incessant stream of questions?"

I couldn't help the small smile that crept upon my lips. "I'm just worried about you, Erik," I replied simply, before resting my head on his knee from where I now sat at his feet.

I believe he muttered something about "poor, unhappy Erik", but I couldn't hear him properly from where I was.

We spent several long, comfortable moments like that, and I noticed that his breathing had calmed and supposed him asleep—until I felt his touch.

I didn't notice it at first. But soon, I could feel his fingers softly clenching and unclenching in my hair, then combing through its length, then dancing around my brow, pirouetting on my scalp, his cold touch lingering at the base of my neck—

"You're trembling," he observed quietly.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You are." I could practically _hear_ the smug smile I knew must be sitting on his face.

"Fancy that," I said weakly.

"Indeed." He made to stand, and I moved my head out of the way, only to rest it against the seat of the chair moments later; not quite as pointy as his knee, but not nearly as comfortable.

I closed my eyes and sat and listened to him as he moved about the room: neatly stacking the papers on the desk and placing them in a portfolio, setting the mug by the small stove, hanging up his coat, moving in and out of the bathroom, drawing the make-shift curtains on our only window. It was these small sounds of domesticity that kept Erik in perspective for me, reminding me that he was neither demigod, nor demon, but every bit as human as I.

My contemplations were interrupted when I heard his footsteps approaching me, and I sat up and looked at him.

"Stand up," he commanded quietly, extending a hand to help me, and I did almost immediately.

My obedience was duly rewarded with an unexpected embrace; I wilted in his arms, and it wasn't long before his ravaged lips were greedily devouring mine.

"Erik," I gasped, attempting to pull away forcefully, but his arms kept me firmly in place. This behavior, while enjoyable, wasn't like him at all, and my mind screamed for caution but my body begged for more. "Erik, please, stop."

He let go of me immediately, taking a step back before looking at me rather like a kicked puppy would. "You…you don't want…?"

"I didn't say that," I said reflexively, mentally berating myself a second later; my cheeks, traitors that they were, chose that moment to blush furiously.

The only sign of confusion I could see was his wrinkled brow; his normal suave manner had returned. "Forgive me of my presumptions, then," he said, sweeping me easily back into his arms, as my resistance had completely crumbled.

I could feel his fingers deftly working their way through the buttons of my dress that lined my spine, and panicked again, still unsure of whether or not I had any reason to. "Wait," I blurted, pressing a hand into his chest.

He paused, looking at me expectantly.

"What…what will the neighbors think?" I finished lamely.

"You don't mean to tell me," he said, "that you actually _care_ about that?"

"I—I…no."

He sighed, appraising me for a moment before trying a different tactic. "Meg," he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear. "Meg, relax…"

"I…I really don't think…"

"Shh…" He pressed his lips against my forehead this time, resuming the unbuttoning of my dress.

"Erik, really. Perhaps…perhaps lat— oh…"

I lost practically all ability to think and speak coherently as he moved his mouth to my neck, simultaneously coaxing the dress from my shoulders to fall in a puddle of fabric around my ankles.

I knew—probably had for a while, though failed to acknowledge it—that he wanted me, that he intended to take the present situation much further, as evidenced by his hands on my waist, slowly returning to my back in search of the laces of my corset, and I silently willed him to be quicker about it; my Master of seduction had woven a spell of extreme potency and tenacity, keeping me firmly in its grasp.

But something was fighting to gain my attention and hold it, fighting through the haze of wonderful, overwhelming sensation that Erik had so carefully crafted—and winning.

The first time, it jolted me. By the time it repeated, I had regained marginal control of myself.

A knock. Several.

Someone was knocking on the door.

Of course, I panicked. But communicating my concern would be difficult, since "marginal" was stretching it, as far as my control went.

"The door," I finally murmured. "Someone…the door…"

"Mmhmm…" He'd found the laces by now.

"But, Erik," I persisted, "we need to answer the door."

"Just ignore it, Meg." The corset came off and joined my dress on the floor. "They'll stop eventually; the only thing I need you to do now is forget about it."

But he was wrong; they didn't stop. In fact, the knocking—pounding, more like it—only grew more intense, mirroring my frantic state. But Erik was so adept at countering my attempts to bring this fact to his attention that I'd just about given up, until:

"Erik! Meg! I know you're in there! Don't make me break this door down!"

"God _damn_ that insufferable woman to the depths of Hell," he growled, kissing my neck one more time before pulling away.

I automatically stooped down, hastily collecting my dress from off the floor and pulling it on while Erik smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt that had apparently gotten there from me clinging to him, though I didn't remember that. "Help me," I whispered, and I fixed my hair while he buttoned a few select buttons that would ensure the dress stayed closed. It felt strange, not wearing a corset with the dress, but as there was not enough time, I scooped it up off the floor and tossed it under the bed, sitting down at the foot of it just as Erik opened the door.

"Yes?" he said curtly. I could almost _see_ the anger radiating from him; I imagined how his eyes must be smoldering, and smiled in spite of myself.

"I _knew_ you were in here," came a voice from the other side of the door; Erik rarely opened it wider than just the most minimal of spaces to peek from.

"Your persistence becomes you, Madame," he said, the biting sarcasm in his voice causing me to wince.

"Don't you 'Madame' me, I don't need it."

"My apologies, Mrs. Valerius."

"Ah, that's better; I'll make a proper gentleman of you yet. Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Grudgingly, Erik moved out of the way, and the matronly figure of Mrs. Valerius appeared from behind the door. "Ah, there she is," she said, smiling at me. "Bonjour, Meg."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Erik make a face at her horrible pronunciation, but I merely smiled back. "Bonjour, Mama. Comment allez-vous?"

"Quite well, thank you. And you? Are you all right?"

"Yes," I replied, hating the way the word sounded coming from my mouth.

"What do you know! She speaks English…" Her expression looked both surprised and a little hurt.

"Not well," I clarified.

This piece of information seemed to cheer her up. "That can be fixed. But, honestly, hasn't Erik ever—?"

"I don't mean to interrupt," said Erik, though clearly intending to do just that. "But I've no reason to believe that your…unanticipated visit was for the sole purpose of discussing my wife's language abilities…" He smiled wryly. "…or lack thereof."

"Of course." She straightened up, all business now. "We missed you during breakfast and lunch…and Ms. Adams from one floor down told me she heard yelling earlier, so I decided to see if everything was all right…?"

She had phrased the last part as a question, looking at me, so I nodded.

"Good." She made for the door, Erik silently tailing her to ensure she didn't suddenly change her mind and decide to stay for another ten minutes. "I'll see you both at dinner, then?"

Erik surprised me by looking genuinely sorry. "I'm afraid not."

"You're sure? The Campanellas gave me a tremendous amount of pasta instead of rent money this month, and I picked up some fresh tomatoes today…"

"We're positive, thank you."

"All right. Oh, Meg, would you be so kind as to stop by my place tomorrow, perhaps mid-morning?" She shot a rather dark look at Erik. "And without your translator?"

"_Thank you_," said Erik, coming just short of shoving her out the door.

I nodded quickly in answer to her question, wishing I could say more.

"Excellent. Well, you kids have fun, then," she said, winking at me before disappearing behind the door as Erik shut it with a snap.

"You're extremely rude, did you know that?" I said as he locked the door.

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me."

I sighed, and he turned to look at me wickedly. "Now," he said, "where were we?"

"Erik," I hissed as he approached me. "At least wait until she can't hear us, will you?"

He paused, as if contemplating, then took the last few steps towards me, grabbing my hands and pulling me up. "No…I don't think I'll do that…"

His lips met mine, and before I lost all ability to, I reflected on how little I truly knew about this man. I didn't know where this sudden aggressiveness had come from, for example. I didn't know how long it would last, either.

I did know one thing, however: whether he intended it or not, I was going to be very sore tomorrow.


	7. Ch 6: Love, Unmasked

**Thanks to: E/MOTP, Virginie, Mara-SS, Writer (missed you! hope all is going well!), Hero Sis, trueurbanite, MJ (it's a mystery... :D), smoking caramels (did I mention that I love your penname?), LisalikesPhantom (thank you so much for your reviews on Desire), PrincessSYS, and all the readers! Huggles for all.**

**A short little chapter, but I felt it necessary... quite fluffy, actually. Hope you enjoy.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing. And the "old adage" that Erik says is attributed to Shakespeare, more specifically, his play _The Merchant of Venice_.**

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chapter 6

The first thing I registered when I woke up the next morning was his bare skin against mine, and my heart nearly stopped; he'd actually elected to stay in bed with me though it was very much past his normal rising hour, something he'd never in my memory done before.

I shifted slightly, intent on going back to sleep, instead uttering a surprised groan of pain. I lay back with my head against the pillow, groaning again; muscles I hadn't even known existed were screaming in protest. Unable to do much else at the moment, I closed my eyes.

"Ah, you're awake," I heard him say, though too tired to open my eyes to look at him. "At least…I thought you were…"

"I'm awake," I breathed. "Coherency will be a while, but I'm awake."

"Take your time," he replied softly; I thought I detected a smile in his voice, but I could never tell with him.

I soon felt the blanket of sleep threatening to overwhelm me again, but when I moved once more in order to get more comfortable and be in closer contact with him, I felt stabs of pain shooting throughout my body, and gasped.

"Meg, are you all right?"

"No," I said truthfully, probably sounding more than pathetic to him.

He surprised me, though, by kissing my cheek. "I'm sorry…it won't happen again, I promise."

"No, don't say that!" I nearly screamed at him, panicking, yet unable to move; I settled for looking at him. "Don't you ever, ever apologize for wanting me, do you hear me?"

"But—"

"Answer me."

He sighed. "I understand, Meg."

"Good." I smiled wryly. "Just…"

"What is it?"

"Just warn me next time, all right?"

He laughed. "Agreed."

"Excellent." I sat up slowly, clenching my teeth, trying to stretch out; the pain wasn't so bad anymore, but I still felt horribly tight.

He watched, rather amused, as I tried in vain to stretch the muscles in my lower back. After a while I gave up, and lay myself back down, pulling the bed sheet up to my chin. Maybe, if I stayed very still…

"Lie on your stomach," he said.

I sat back up like a shotgun had gone off in the vicinity, regretting it a split second later. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"You heard me," he countered.

I had to keep from smiling; some of his usual manner had returned. I glared at him playfully for a moment before backing down in acquiescence, my face soon pressed against my pillow.

I felt his fingers brushing my hair away from my back and instinctively tensed up in anticipation. "What are you doing?" I asked softly, my voice muffled further by the pillow that I was too lazy and too stiff to move away from.

"I believe it's called a massage."

I turned my head for the dual purpose of looking at him and being better able to breathe. "Oh."

"Now," he said, moving out of my line of sight, "where does it hurt?"

I contemplated saying 'everywhere' but decided against it at the last minute and said instead, "Let's just start with my back."

I closed my eyes as his hands glided over my skin, first deftly working the tension from my shoulders, then moving steadily downwards in a repeated pattern of elongated circles, each one larger than the last. When he had to move the sheet a little from where it rested against the lowest extremity of my back, I said, "You'd better not go any lower than that."

"What?"

"Don't go any lower."

"Lower? Oh…you mean lower than this…"

"Erik!" I yelped.

He chuckled. "I'm sorry, Meg, I couldn't resist."

"Well, at least you've got it out of your system—oh, right there…"

"Here?"

"A little to the left…more…there. Right there."

We were silent for a while, until he said, "This probably is the wrong time to ask this…"

Uh-oh. Nothing good _ever_ came out of a preface like that. "But…?"

"Are you scared of me?"

"What? Why? I don't understand."

He sighed, and I felt him pull away. "You…last night…" He paused; I could almost see the thoughts flying around as he mentally deliberated on how best to phrase what he was trying to say. "You tremble every time I touch you."

I lay in silence; it was my turn for deliberation. Could it really be possible that he was unaware of what he did to me every time I saw him, unaware of the sway he held over me, physically, emotionally? No; instances like the night previous indicated otherwise. Unaware of the _extent_ of his hold, then? Probably.

Now I had to answer his question…was I scared of him? There were times that I certainly feared what he could _do_, times in the past that I had feared for my life in his presence, times that I didn't like to think about; Erik, I knew, could kill without a second thought, and that knowledge is, by definition, extremely frightening. But did I fear the person behind such actions, the mysteriously fragile soul, the tormented genius that in such a short span of time had grown to trust me so completely that it stole my breath away just to think of it?

Never.

"You're quiet," he observed uneasily.

I sat up slowly so I could look him in the eye. "Erik," I said, reaching out and gently holding his face between my hands. "Erik…I love you. Though some of the things you do frighten me to no end, I'd never be able to be scared _of_ you." I let go of him then, leaning back away from him a little.

The relief that at once manifested itself in his expression both broke my heart and made it leap in exultation. "And the trembling?" he asked, still slightly skeptical of my pronouncement.

I blushed. "Purely physical."

His brow wrinkled in thought. "Meg…how—how can someone as…as _beautiful_ as you find me, of all people, attra—attract…" The words seemed unable to leave his mouth.

"Attractive?" He nodded, and I smiled. "I love you, remember?"

"Ah," he said. "The old adage is proven, then…"

"And which adage would that be?"

He made a face. "'Love is blind.'"

I pondered this. "No," I said, and he looked at me in surprise. "Not blind. Just stupid."

He grinned, then gathered me into his arms, holding me close, burying his face into my hair. _Say it_, I willed him silently, _say you love me._

But he didn't. He didn't say anything. He just held onto me, keeping my body pressed close to his, as if I were the most important thing in his universe.

And, for that moment, that's exactly what I felt like.


	8. Ch 7, part one: Impatience

**Wow!! **_**Sixteen**_** reviews!! Thanks to: Poof, Hero Sis, MJ, Writer, Anonymous, smoking caramels, trueurbanite (too lazy to log in, eh? Haha, just teasing), LisalikesPhantom (Idotoo, hahaha...sorry, just teasing), phantomluver, Virginie, PrincessSYS, L.G. (so great to hear from you again!), Kyrene (wow I thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth! So good to have you back), Hot4Gerry (nice name -**_**winks**_**-),****a special welcome to AppaAndMomoForever (once again, thanks so much), Carmabell (thank you so much!), and, of course all the readers. I continue to be overwhelmed by your generosity and support.**

**To PrincessSYS, since I know this will come up again in your review: Patience, young grasshopper! All shall be revealed two (full) chapters from now.**

**disclaimer: I own nothing. and sorry about the excessive fluffiness recently...I just decided to cram in some before things turned...well, decidedly NOT fluffy. (cue evil laughter)**

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chapter 7 (part one)

"Meg."

I felt the consciousness coming, but I longed to slip away once more, longed for the dream never to end.

"Meg," the angel repeated, nudging my shoulder this time. "Meg, you should get up."

"I…I don't…want…"

"Suit yourself," replied the angel, and I felt the weight center of the mattress shift as he left my side. "Just don't blame me when Mrs. Valerius comes back to break the door down looking for you."

That got me up.

"Shit," I swore, tearing the covers that I'd been so neatly tucked under away from me, realizing belatedly the tenderness of the gesture. I sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, dazed. "What happened? What time is it?"

He looked away, probably to give me more privacy, as I was still stark naked. "You fell asleep," he explained, eyes locked on the ground. "My fault entirely; I shouldn't have been singing…"

"You…you were singing?" I asked, surprised and more than a little disappointed. Why didn't I remember that?

He looked at me curiously. "Yes… You asked me to."

I felt my eyes widen. "I don't remember," I said, perplexed.

"It must have been just before you drifted off, then," he offered.

"That's probably it," I agreed, but something was eating at me from the inside.

He looked away again, this time putting more distance between us by walking over to the far side of the room. I sat in awkward, electric silence for a moment before taking one of the blankets from off the bed and wrapping it around me, and I stood.

It was harder than I thought. My legs didn't want to move; and, once they did, it was painful to support my weight, let alone walk.

"Oh, I give up," I said, collapsing back on the bed after a few tries to walk normally; I was just too tight.

Erik laughed. "Please, Meg, the melodrama doesn't suit you at all."

I muttered something rather improper under my breath, and he spun around, his eyes growing wide. "Marguerite!" he gasped.

"What? It's true, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Aha! See? I'm right."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, indignant. "For Christ's sake, that doesn't mean you have to be so…indecent about it."

"But, Erik, I'm not being 'indecent'. I'm merely stating facts."

He shook his head, looking away again. "That mouth of yours is going to get you in serious trouble one day, just wait."

I nodded. "You told me that yesterday."

"Well, then, a little repetition never hurt anyone."

I smirked, sitting up, attempting once again to stretch my lower back. "Unless…"

His mismatched eyes just about doubled in size as he snapped his gaze back on me again. _"Meg!"_ It sounded like a yelp.

I burst into laughter, I couldn't help it. "I didn't say anything that time, that was entirely you."

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I believed I saw a little color rise in his cheeks and on his neck. "You're terrible."

"Not compared to you." I paused, thinking it over. "Actually, maybe I _am_ more terrible than you; I just made you blush, after all."

His hands flew to his face. "You did _not_ make me blush."

I stood, pulling the lower half of the blanket I still had wrapped around me to just shy of my waist, gingerly doing a few lunges to stretch out my legs more effectively before covering myself again. "Yes, I did, I saw it."

He chuckled. "Meg, I don't blush. Believe me, it's impossible."

"Come here," I said. At his puzzled expression, I repeated myself. "Come here, quick."

He obeyed.

I grabbed his hands, pulling him closer. "Now, bend down. To my height, come on."

He bent his knees, awkwardly leaning towards me. Satisfied, I peered at his face for a moment before gently resting my hands against his cheeks, and smiled.

"What?" he asked me a little suspiciously.

"Your skin is warmer than usual," I murmured, taking the opportunity to press my lips against his forehead. His usual clammy skin was nearly, dare I say it, _normal_.

"Nonsense," he said, pulling away and straightening up to his full height. He looked at me, a rare, crooked smile lighting up his dismal features. "Besides, if it was, can you blame me?"

"No," I quipped, "not really." I turned around and walked off, intent on actually getting dressed this time, only to be near-yanked back by Erik, one of his hands around my arm, the other resting on my waist.

"Meg," he said, his angelic voice made hoarse with sudden want. He kissed the top of my head, pressing me closer to him. "Meg, if I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were the Devil incarnate."

"I'm flattered," I breathed, thinking along the same lines with regards to him, though less sure of the knowing better part. "Do I tempt you so much, then?"

"Always," he murmured in my ear, sending me into a series of minor convulsions, so great and intense was my desire for him. I knew I couldn't indulge, though, no matter how much I wanted to; I had obligations to fulfill first. Erik could wait…couldn't he?

I dreaded yet hungered for another episode like the night previous. Still unsure of where this was going, I said, "Would it shock you if I were to say the same, if not more, about you?"

He pressed my body even closer to his, and I had to bite my lip to conceal my small, anticipatory squeak. "Perhaps."

"What…" My mind was becoming rapidly consumed with the need to surrender myself to him, and I had to fight to keep my wits about me. "What if I told you that I didn't want you?"

He surveyed my face for a moment before boldly moving his hand up from my waist to cup one of my breasts, and I gasped his name loudly, eyes seeing stars; even through the blanket I could feel the cold touch of his fingers, and my body reacted immediately.

"Sorry, Meg, but actions speak louder than words. Hurry back," he said, speaking softly into my ear once more before removing his hand and walking away, disappearing into the pantry, leaving me standing in the middle of our bedroom, my body still fiercely on fire for him.

I seriously contemplated shedding the blanket and running after him—anything to feel his skin against mine—and it took all of my resolve and self-control to walk instead to the small armoire where I kept my meager supply of clothing. I got dressed in a daze, convinced that Erik was watching as I did so—I could feel his eyes on me, but I couldn't bring myself to turn around and face him, or I'd never leave the apartment at all—and soon left, resolutely walking down the hall towards Mama Valerius' apartment, thinking one thing, and one thing only:

If this meeting went for longer than an hour, I'd probably explode.

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	9. Ch 7, part two: Mama Valerius

**Thanks to: Hero Sis, Appa, Lisa (haha, like the new word), trueurbanite (you know I was just teasing, right? I could care less whether you sign in or not. :D), phantomluver, Writer (it's in the dictionary! ahh!), PrincessSYS, and of course all the lovely readers. **

**Hopefully you like this chapter...I'm attempting to give the character of Mama Valerius more depth, as well as setting up a couple of future plot points I've had in mind for a very long time now...**

**disclaimer: I own nothing. **

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chapter 7 (part two)

"Come in."

I tried the handle and found it unlocked.

Mama Valerius had her back turned as I entered. "Hello, Meg," she said.

Shocked into silence, I could only gape stupidly at her.

She turned around slowly, a grin on her face. "Surprised you?"

I nodded.

She laughed. "Sorry, dear. It's a peculiar habit I have."

I smiled. _Of surprising people?_

"No, dear, of course not," she continued, as if she had heard my thoughts. "I recognize footsteps."

My mouth formed into a little "o" of realization, but my heart rate was still rather accelerated. It was only a coincidence that she was able to answer my question…no one had the ability to read thoughts.

_Erik?_ a small part of me prompted.

I smiled lightly. There were, of course, exceptions…

"…and Mrs. Brown two doors down clunks around, but you—and Erik, I suppose, but I never hear him approach, so that counts him out, doesn't it? You, though, have a nice, graceful step, sort of like that of a nice little Japanese girl I met a few years back…tell me, dear, have you ever been to the Orient?"

It was only through comments like these—so similar to several I had heard before in the past—that I knew what she was talking about. "Ah, non, je suis un danseur," I said, hoping she would understand me, as I didn't quite know how to say it in English.

"Ah! Maintenant je comprends… Quelle sorte de danseur êtes-vous, cher?" she said, with such fluency that I answered back immediately.

"Je suis une ballerine."

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, speaking English again. "You must show me sometime."

I was aghast; my mind had caught up with reflex, and I had finally identified what was so strange about the conversation. "You…you speak French?" I asked in my native tongue, just to make sure.

"Yes, actually," she replied, comfortable with the language. The familiarity sent a rush through my veins. "Though you understand English and _should_ be learning how to speak it, I decided it would be much more beneficial to our conversation if I spoke to you like this."

"Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me…"

"You'd be surprised," she said with a grin. "Honestly, Meg, you give nosy neighbors like me too much credit."

I laughed. "I wouldn't classify you as nosy, really," I said. Which was true; growing up in the Opera had taught me that there was no such thing as privacy amongst those that lived in tight quarters. And Mama Valerius' concern about her tenants was almost apathy when compared to some of the girls I knew in the _corps_. "Well-meaning, perhaps, but not nosy."

"'Well-meaning'?" She chuckled. "That's a new one."

I smiled as well, I couldn't help it; her cheer was contagious. "Glad to be of assistance, Mrs. Valerius."

"Oh, dear, we've been over that…feel free to call me Mama, everyone else does."

"Of course. Thank you, Mama." The woman's openness almost made my eyes water; what I wouldn't have given for my own mother to be like this…

"Would you like some lunch, Meg? I have a few sandwiches handy."

"Oh!" I was starving, I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually eaten something. "Oh, yes, please, that would be wonderful."

She immediately stood and bustled about in her kitchen for bit, leaving me on the couch in the small parlor. I looked around, taking in my surroundings for the first time. Her apartment was substantially larger than mine and Erik's—and the rest of those in the small building, most likely—and was actually divided into a few rooms instead of the standard one-room-intended-for-multiple-purposes design. From my seat in the small, comfortable parlor-like area, I could see a short hallway leading to what I could only suppose must be a couple of bedrooms. In the opposite direction was the kitchen, from which I could still hear noises corresponding to Mama Valerius' search for the alleged sandwiches, and another hallway that could have led to a pantry or small storage closet.

The decor was distinctly…cheery; light colors and flowers and sunlight everywhere, adding to the definite "home" aura of the place, only augmented by the tell-tale portraits over the mantelpiece above the small fireplace. I sighed inwardly, some feminine instinct awakened within me; as I gazed around at the tidy flat, I couldn't help but imagine myself and Erik coming to own one very much like this sometime in our future.

"Here you are, dear," said Mama Valerius, and I turned around in surprise to see her emerge from her kitchen with a tray laden with all sorts of food. "I figured you would be hungry, since I haven't seen you—or Erik, for that matter—at a meal in nearly two days…unless you two found time to eat something?"

I blushed deeply, and she laughed, putting the tray on the worn but still beautiful coffee table in front of me before sitting beside me on the sofa. "It's perfectly all right, my dear, I know exactly how that sort of thing goes. Feel free to eat as much as you'd like," she said, before standing up and reseating herself in a squashy-looking armchair next to the couch, angling it in my direction.

I merely sat and ate for a while, reveling in the company, but soon I felt the compulsion to say something. Pouring myself a second glass of lemonade from the pitcher that Mama Valerius had seen fit to include on the tray, I said, "You're terribly kind to offer all this food… You see, Erik often goes days at a time without eating anything, and he sometimes forgets that I'm not like him."

Mama Valerius raised an eyebrow. "And not once over the span of two days did you see fit to remind him?"

I blushed again, and she laughed. "Only teasing, Meg. Like I said, you can have as much as you'd like, it's no trouble at all." She paused, following my example and pouring herself a glass of lemonade, sipping it thoughtfully. "You say Erik goes _days_ without eating?"

I nodded. "Sometimes, yes. Usually when he's working on something." My thoughts fluttered to the stack of sheet music on the battered desk at the far end of our apartment, and I wondered if he could be working on one of his compositions right now, imagined him pacing, ranting under his breath about his inability to compose without a piano there, and then doing it anyway.

"Odd. Ever since I've met you two, he's shown up to nearly every meal."

I smiled wryly. "I think it's because he likes your cooking."

She laughed. "My dear, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that were the case."

She laughed again, I joining her, before falling once more into comfortable silence. Eventually, she asked me, "How old are you, Meg?"

"I'll be nineteen in a few weeks."

I saw the glimmer of shock on her face before she continued, "And how long have you and Erik been married?"

That took a little more thought. "About…five months? We were married at the end of May."

She nodded. "That seems about right…" She sighed, leaning forward in her chair, regarding me with something akin to pity in her eyes. "So the dream is beginning to fade, am I right? And you're still so young…"

I toyed with the idea of saying that being with Erik was anything but a dream, even at the beginning, but I knew that the moment I said it I would be lying. "It's…difficult at times, yes."

"Oh, my dear, I can imagine. He's very volatile, isn't he?"

I smirked inwardly; poor Mama Valerius didn't know the half of it. "That's one way to describe him, I suppose. But I love him very much."

"Yes, I can see that." She tried smiling again, but it died half-way on her lips, not quite making it to her eyes. She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then began again, "My dear, you must realize…"

"If this is about the other tenants, don't worry, Mama, I know what they think, and so does Erik," I said, my voice a little harsher than I had originally intended. "I know it seems like he doesn't care, but—"

"Once again, you give me far too much credit." Her smile was a grim one, fiercer. "Very little goes on in this building that isn't brought to my attention sooner or later." She looked at me, and I suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, like I was being visually chewed up and swallowed.

"Anyone can see that you love him," she continued, her scrutiny of me softening a little. "That much is evident from the way you look at him, the way your eyes light up while you talk about him. I'd almost say that it's youthful infatuation, but there's also a sort of sadness, a bitterness…jealousy, perhaps? The way you carry yourself speaks otherwise, however; so proud, so defiant… You are your own mistress, are you not? Or wish to be, at least. And not even nineteen?" She tutted quietly, shaking her head. "Yes, Meg, there is obviously more to you than that pretty face, much more. What has happened in your short life to make you so, my dear? And married so young, to a man at least twice your age, a true beast to your beauty…" She faded into silence, staring intently at me, curiosity unbridled.

I looked away from her, staring instead at my lap. I knew _why_ she wanted to know about everything—Erik and I were the strange enigmas in her well-ordered world—but I was unsure whether or not to trust her with the whole truth. I highly doubted that news of the Opera scandal had even made it across the Atlantic immediately after its occurrence, let alone nearly two years after the fact, but I couldn't risk it; I didn't want to jeopardize Erik and our life here with careless actions that could potentially result in our arrest or, even worse, being deported and taken back to France. As far as I was concerned, a return to France, no matter how much I wished it otherwise, meant certain death for Erik, and possibly for myself as well. We could only run for so long, and once caught, we would have to stand trial…and, no matter how much I had loathed them at one or more points in the past, I couldn't bear even thinking about my mother and Christine having to witness such a thing.

"Of course, you don't have to tell me anything, dear," said Mama Valerius, interrupting my thoughts and the bleak direction they had taken, something for which I was extremely grateful, and I let out a small sigh of relief at both this and what she had just said. "No, of course you don't… I was only thinking aloud, you must forgive me for making you uncomfortable."

"Oh, it's fine, Mama. It wasn't any worse than anything else I've been through, I promise."

"I don't doubt it," she replied, the fierceness returning for a moment, but this time protective rather than predatory. "Speaking of which: I've been…ah…_chiding_ those whom I've heard saying rude things about you two behind your backs." She attempted to look contrite, even embarrassed, but her large smile ruined it.

I laughed. "Well, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I suppose, but…thank you, Mama, I really appreciate it."

"Of course dear, it's the least I can do." She paused, looking at me again, then sighed softly. "Meg, you remind me so much of someone…"

"Who?" I asked, curious.

"Myself, if you can believe it. I was actually raised in France…ah, I haven't told you that? I was born here, in New York; my mother died in childbirth with me, so I was sent by my father off to live with his sister in Paris. He was a merchant, so he traveled quite a lot, and he thought it more appropriate that I have a more stable living situation rather than roaming everywhere along with him.

"When I was seventeen, I lived in Sweden for a while, at first only vacationing with a close friend of mine; then I met Tomas.

"He was nothing more than the local tailor; both my father and my aunt would have denounced him as 'trash'…in fact, I think both of them did, on several occasions." She grinned, then continued, "We were both very young, and very much in love…my father was against the match, obviously, didn't want his only child associating with the likes of a poor Swedish tailor, but I didn't care. I stayed with his parents for about six months while he worked, getting extra money from various odd jobs, and with the help of a friend we were able to elope and leave for the States.

"We owed him so much, Tomas and I…even though he was younger than us, he was able to help in so many ways. He was a traveling musician, a violinist, and he already had enough of a reputation that he was able to have us escorted out of the country and on a ship heading for New York." She sighed, a faraway look coming to her eyes. "Lovely Gustave…I wonder whatever happened to him."

Gustave? I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't quite place it, and the sudden feeling of uneasy familiarity was overwhelming. "Your friend…you said he played an instrument?" I asked; why was this scenario so familiar?

"Yes, he played violin; it was his dream to make it to all of the huge concert halls in Europe."

"And…and what was his last name again?" My hands were shaking as I folded them and placed them in my lap.

"Oh, goodness, let me see…it's been so long…Daae, I think his name was. Yes, that's it: Gustave Daae."

I fought to keep my jaw from dropping, and settled for my eyes widening hugely instead. "I…I think I know his daughter," I said quietly. "Back in Paris…we danced together, in the same ballet _corps_."

She grew excited. "You do? How is he, did you ever meet him? Even after Tomas died I tried reestablishing contact with him, but I couldn't find him."

I bit my lip. "Unfortunately…the only reason that I met Christine, his daughter, was because my mother was charged with taking care of her after…after her father passed away."

Her expression grew somber. "Oh. Oh, I see…"

I reached out, placing my hand gently on one of her own. "Christine spoke of him often, though. He sounded like a good man."

She only nodded.

I sighed, coming to my feet. "I should go. Thank you for inviting me over for this talk, Mama, it means a lot to me."

She smiled gently. "Of course, dear, it was my pleasure. Just so you know, my door is open to you at anytime, should you ever need it."

I nodded, heading for the door. "Thank you… oh, Mama Valerius?" I paused, turning around to look at her from where she still sat in her armchair.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Could you…could you possibly not mention to anyone—particularly Erik—about Monsieur Daae? He…the name upsets him," I said, hoping my vagueness would not prompt questions, knowing they undoubtedly would.

I could see the question in her eyes, but she only said, "Of course, Meg."

"Thank you for everything again, Mama." I stepped over to the door, pulled it open, and shut it behind me quietly, then leaned against the wall in the hallway.

Daae. Mama Valerius knew Christine's father. I sighed; how could I have ever thought that by coming here Erik and I would be able to escape? Well, physically, we had. Emotionally, spiritually…we weren't even close. People could travel, could live in hundreds of places in one lifetime if they so chose, but their pasts, their memories came with them. I had purposely disillusioned myself into believing that we could escape our past by leaving the country, when, in reality, we were both constantly haunted by it. In each of us rested memories of our sordid histories in the Opera that had somehow become entwined, and only through our separation would we ever truly have a chance of escaping, of forgetting. But, of course, leaving Erik was the last thing I ever wanted to do, and then I realized that the trick to overcoming the past was not running from it, was not even learning from it, but simply living with it.


	10. Ch 8: Triumph

**As always, many thanks to: AppaAndMomo, Anonymous, Hero Sis, Lisa, trueurbanite, PrincessSYS, Hot4Gerry, Writer, and, of course, all the other readers. **

**And, unfortunately, this is yet another non-"Erik chapter". Sorry, guys, but I needed to catch up with Christine and Raoul (which was so hard for me! Normally, you will never, _ever_ catch me writing anything remotely RC, and yet, here I am... I hope it's okay). Plus, there's another future plot-point in the works, see if you can spot it!**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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chapter 8

(Excerpts from the most private Journal of Mlle. Christine Daae)

-----

_15 March, 1872_

_Journal,_

_How peculiarly appropriate that it should be today, the Ides of March, that I must record this dreadful news. My hand shakes at the thought, and, as a result, I can barely read my handwriting._

_Meg is gone._

_How dreadful that looks! I had hoped that, in writing it, I might be able to obtain some small measure of reprieve, of closure, but in ink the three words are only given a horrible, ringing finality, like a dungeon door slamming shut for the last time. I wish I can blot them out, but I can't—she's gone. Only a week ago did she return to us after months of silence, only to leave us again, this time for good._

_How dare she give us hope only to take it cruelly away? How dare she leave her poor mother alone, without even a final word of farewell, apart from that blasted letter? How dare she lie to us about Erik? How _dare_ she, knowing full well our history together…how dare she run away with him? …How dare she not take me instead?_

I hate her!

_But, no, even as I write that, it is impossible to hate her. Just like it was impossible for me to go along with her…I have obligations to fulfill, a career, a promise…_

-----

_19 March, 1872_

_Journal,_

_The early arrival of spring that I predicted has finally come. The warm, fresh breeze has been taunting us for weeks, and now, finally, all of the snow has melted and the first green shoots of spring are peeking shyly from everywhere, especially in the Bois. Raoul insisted on a walk today, just the two of us—he said that he needed some of the fresh air to clear his head after dealing with all the details of his estates, but I know he was trying to raise my spirits by getting me out of the house. And who can blame him for his efforts? I've been absolutely dismal company for the past four days, locking myself up in my room, moping about…_

_The walk did wonders for me, as Raoul must have known it would. Spring is my favorite season, it reminds me so much of my life with Papa in Sweden, and soon I found myself smiling and laughing again…_

_Raoul and I walked for a while on the stately boulevards near his house, but I soon found myself in the Bois. There were people everywhere, enjoying the first true vestiges of the warmer weather, children feeding the birds and skipping up the paths with weary nurses following close behind, lovers young and old sitting on benches and holding hands or meandering through the gardens._

_Raoul left me after a while in search of a cart where he could purchase something for us for lunch, and in the meantime, I contented myself by watching an organ-grinder and his monkey amuse the gaggle of children that surrounded the motley pair. When Raoul returned with a sandwich for us to share, I dug a sou from my coin purse and offered it the comical little monkey, who then proceeded to take it from my hand and bow gallantly before clambering up his master's leg and placing it in some hidden pocket, all to wondrous applause._

_Raoul steered me away from the crowds heading towards the zoological gardens, finally coming across a secluded little niche with a bench and a fine view of the artificial lake. The overall effect was very peaceful, and I was reluctant to break the silence, occupying myself with the sandwich for a while._

_Finally, Raoul spoke. "Christine?"_

"_What is it, Raoul?" I asked._

_He fidgeted with the lapels of his coat for a moment before answering. "Christine, I don't mean to trouble you with this now, especially now that…" His sentence drifted, but I knew he was alluding to Meg's recent disappearance. He cleared his throat. "My family—my older brother especially—is rather opposed to our marriage…Philippe has threatened to speak to Father about rescinding my estate and inheritance if we do not…reconsider."_

_I looked at him; he was furious, I knew that, I could sense it, but he hid it very well behind a grim smile. Poor Raoul, all the trouble he's gone through on my behalf…_

"_I thought you said your parents approved?"_

_He sighed. "Yes, well, that was before…"_

"_Everything." I stood, pacing now. "They don't want you implicated in the scandal."_

"_Christine, it's been nearly a year and a half, and they've met you, they know you're respectable," he said, trying to placate me, probably regretting bringing the matter up._

"_Once a dancer, always a dancer," I said. "Remember, Raoul, I was only a ballerina before that Gala."_

"_Yes, but your voice—"_

"_Is only the caliber it was because of Erik's teaching," I reminded him._

_He looked at me, puzzled, unable to comprehend my point._

"_Raoul, surely you must know what the other girls called me backstage."_

_He shook his head._

_I sighed. "Never mind, I'll not trouble you with it. But, Raoul, my point is this: any respectable diva, any respectable _woman_ would not have involved herself in such a scandal. If she had wanted to learn to sing properly, she should have enrolled in the Conservatorie, not have attended lessons from an unseen male presence in a deserted dressing room…" Angry tears cascaded down my face, and I turned away from Raoul to hide them._

_He stood up and simply held me while I cried._

_Once I had finished, he sat me down on the bench and took to pacing in front of me, mirroring my agitated movements from earlier; only, his pacing wasn't fraught with inner turmoil, but with purpose, with planning. Knowing he was deep in thought, I didn't bother him with the questions that suddenly bubbled up from within me._

_Finally, he stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. "Christine," he said, "you must sing."_

_I blinked rapidly. "What?"_

_He was pacing again, faster now. "You need to reestablish yourself, create a new public persona, if you will. You must sing again, Christine."_

_I threw up my hands, cradling my face in my palms. "Raoul, you do not understand the implications of what you are asking…" I had not sung since the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and I had no desire to. All I wanted to do was forget about the whole, horrible mess, and here Raoul was asking—no, mandating—that I drag up the past! It was inconceivable._

_He knelt before me, gently prying my hands away from my face. "Christine, believe me. All my parents care about is public image…and, if you were to regain yours…" His eyes were fervent, pleading with me to understand._

"_We would all get what we want." I paused, remembering something. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, "Raoul, they do not know about the…extent of our relationship, do they?"_

"_No," he said. "I doubt that even the servants know, you're so careful…" He pushed a curl that hung around my face back behind my ear, kissing the tip of my nose softly._

_I smiled. "I wish we didn't have to hide so much, Raoul."_

"_As do I. Which is exactly why we must find a place for you to sing, and quickly."_

"_Raoul, please, listen. I haven't practiced in over a year, I probably sound horrible. And, even if I still _can_ sing, what theater would take me?"_

"_Leave everything to me, Little Lotte," he said, grasping my hands and pulling me from the bench. "Leave everything to me. All you have to do is practice, I'll take care of all the arrangements."_

_I sighed, resigning myself to God-only-knows-what fate. "All right, Raoul."_

"_Just wait, Christine." He was chattering excitedly now, escorting me back down the secluded path towards the more heavily-populated ones once more. "You'll sing, and triumph just like you did during that Gala. The world will be at your feet in no time."_

_I can only hope, for Raoul's sake, that he is right._

-----

_24 May, 1872_

_Journal,_

_Raoul has done it! He has somehow managed to secure a spot for me, an evening _just for me_ to sing. Granted, the theater is a small one, near-bankrupt—I suspect the only reason the owner agreed to the arrangement is the amount Raoul is willing to pay if the plan falls through. Oh, but he is a lovely man, Monsieur Khan. Eccentric, but lovely just the same. He had refused an audience with me at first—unbearable reputation!—but Raoul fought for me until he acquiesced. Even then, he wanted to hear me sing, but didn't want to look at me, so he had me stand behind a veil while I sang my prepared piece—an aria from _Faust_. Only after I had finished, sans accompaniment, did he remove the veil. Needless to say, he was very impressed…_

"_Mademoiselle!" he had proclaimed with a grand flourish of his hand preceding a curious little bow. "Mademoiselle, your talent is incredible! I cannot _believe_ the public chose to ostracize a voice such as yours!"_

_I smiled gratefully, choosing not to point out that he himself had refused to listen to me for the past month. "Thank you, Monsieur. You are too kind."_

"_Mademoiselle…Daae, is it?"_

_I nodded._

"_Then, my dear Mademoiselle Daae, you are on your way to greatness. Mark my words. The world shall be at your feet before too long."_

_I glanced at Raoul; the similarity of Monsieur's remark to Raoul's own was not lost on me. He looked smug._

_We chatted for a little more, making arrangements for the evening, setting up a program._

_I will sing in a week's time. I will sing in a week's time, and my Angel of Music is not here to hear it. Raoul senses that I am nervous, but not for the reason I am, and for that I feel terribly guilty. So much of Raoul's future hinges on my performance, and yet I bring up once more the Angel of Music. It is terribly selfish of me, I know, but I cannot help it. And it did not help me at all when Monsieur Khan said to me: "Your Teacher must be proud."_

_I know that he must not know the true implications of what he said, that he must only know that I was involved in some scandal, taken from the stage in the midst of a performance and found, hours later, seven stories beneath the burning Opera House in a wedding gown… But, the way his dark eyes scrutinized me, I cannot help but feel that he must know something more._

_It leaves me uneasy. I pray I am only imagining things, and that everything goes well…_

-----

_31 May, 1872_

_Journal,_

_It is all over. I have done it! It is hours later, and my hand is still shaking so terribly that I can barely write. _

_I have done it! In one night, I was able to win back the hearts and respect of Paris. I was shocked beyond belief that the theater had sold out so quickly—only two days after the announcement that I should sing! It is incredible…my face is all over the papers, overshadowing the grim news even of the distant war. Afterwards, I was so bombarded by well-wishers armed with flowers that I couldn't move, and it took Raoul quite some time to get to me. Once he had finally whisked me away from the seething crowd of people and we were safely cloistered in my small dressing room, he picked me up off my feet and spun me around._

"_Christine! Christine, you've done it!"_

"_I have, haven't I?" I was dazed, both from the performance and the brief spin in the air._

_He laughed, gathering me up into his arms. "What did I tell you? Did you see the way they leapt to their feet! It was amazing, Christine, the things I heard afterwards…"_

_I smiled grimly, shaking my head. "It astounds me how some things are so easily forgotten…"_

"_Yes, but, Christine, don't you see?" Raoul had either missed what I was implying or had chosen to ignore it entirely. "Don't you see? You have it in you to take France by storm."_

"_You want me to continue?" I asked, pulling out of the embrace to look at him. I had to make sure I had heard him correctly, validating his statement before I let any hope rise in me, only to be crushed as soon as it had come. "You would be all right with it?"_

"_All right with it? Christine, I would _love_ it if you were to continue!"_

_I laughed with him, throwing my arms about him in excitement. "Oh, Raoul, I'd forgotten how it felt to be on stage…"_

_At that moment the door opened, and Monsieur Khan entered, looking jubilant. "Well done, Christine, well done!" he said. I let go of Raoul, only to find my hand swept up in one of Monsieur Khan's. "You've brought the house down!"_

_I smiled coyly. "Then, perhaps, you wouldn't mind at all if I sang here again?"_

_He regarded me as though I had suddenly transformed into one of the pagan Goddesses of old before his very eyes. "My dear," he said, bringing my hand reverently to his lips. "My dear, I would be honored to have you on my stage again."_

"_It's settled, then," said Raoul, looking eager to take my hand away from the lovely manager's lips. "Christine shall sing here again. Shall we go over the details?"_

"_Oh, but of course, of course," he said. "In my office, then…?"_

_They left, and I found myself suddenly alone, experiencing a most-peculiar sense of déjà vu. I turned around slowly, only to find my reflection staring back at me from a full-length mirror across the room…_

"_Erik…Angel. Wherever you are…I sang for you tonight. Thank you. Thank you for giving me my life back, and for making Raoul happy. I am forever in your debt." I paused, not sure if I should continue; even though I realized he could never hear me, I had gone for far too long speaking to empty rooms, choosing my words with caution, and I fear it has become a habit, a necessary instinct to survive. _

_Finally decided, I said, simply, "I trust you will take care of Meg."_


	11. Ch 9: Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies

**I promised myself that I would have a chapter up before the term started, and here it is! Yes, I begin attending college on Monday, and I'm not sure when I'll have the time to start on the next chapter, so I've made this one nice and long. :D**

**As a result, though the whole thing is a series of flashbacks, I've elected to spare you all from the absurdly large chunk of italics. Make sure to pay attention to the dates, though.**

**Thanks to: Appa, Lisa, E/MOTP, Ron's Sexy Girly1100, Hero Sis, MJ, trueurbanite, PrincessSYS (this one's for you! Hope you like it), Hot4Gerry, and a welcome to Faith-Catherine. And the readers! _-happy dance-_**

**disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

chapter 9

_31 May, 1872_

"Meg," he said, gently shaking her awake. "Meg, you need to get up."

"Hmm?" she said, sitting up, bleary-eyed. "What's wrong?"

He bit back a smile; he must be going soft. "Nothing's wrong. We do, however, have a few things to do before our ship leaves in three hours."

She ran a hand through her hair distractedly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "Erik, what on earth do you have on your face?"

His fingers flew up automatically to examine what might have caught Meg's attention, but he could only feel the rough surface of the makeshift mask he had bartered off of someone in the marketplace earlier; not the best, but it would do… "A mask."

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You'll attract more attention with…_that_…than you would if you didn't bother with it. Really, Erik, it's hideous."

Angered, he tore it away, glaring at her. "And you're trying to tell me that this is supposed to be better?"

Her gaze softened as she looked at him. "Yes, actually."

He turned away, fixing it on his face again.

She mock-sighed as she put her good chemise over her head, pulling it on. "Ah, well, if you insist on wearing it…I guess I'm not getting married to you, after all."

There existed a moment of tense silence in which Erik turned to look at her; before Meg knew what was happening, Erik was beside her again, gripping her upper arm tightly.

"The only reason I agreed to this is because you expressed an interest in it. If you do not wish to go through with it, very well. But I warn you, another opportunity will not arise again."

"If that's so," she said, knowing she was treading thin ice but pressing on anyway. "If that's so, then why did you react like that?" She looked pointedly at her arm, which he quickly released. Changing tacks, she slowly reached out and gently pulled the offending mask away from his face. "You don't have to lie to me, you know," she said softly. "You want this as much as I do."

"Oh, really?" he said quietly. Dangerously. "And why would that be, Meg?"

"I—um…" she fidgeted a little under his hawk's gaze. "Well…you know…"

"No, Meg, I must confess that I _don't_ know. Unless you are referring—and I can't possibly imagine why you would be doing so—to our illicit little affair of the past three months?"

She remained silent.

"Well, if that were the only case, I personally see no need to change circumstances to account for public opinion, do you?"

"And if there were a child?" she asked quietly, meeting his gaze and holding it.

If his complexion were the least bit normal, he would have paled visibly. "What…what are you trying to say?"

She was tempted to lie, but decided against it, knowing there would be graver consequences in the future if she did. "Nothing. I'm just being realistic, that's all. I'm sorry if it upset you." She sat back down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at the floor.

She seemed so small and helpless, curled in on herself like that, and as Erik looked at her he felt his temper cool. Why had he even been angry? He couldn't remember, couldn't focus on anything but how tiny and fragile she appeared; no more than a child, really, though he didn't prefer to take that perspective often—especially considering some of the things he and she had gotten up to late at night. Only a child, playing at being a grown-up…

"Meg," he said, approaching her; she looked up at him—somewhat wearily, he thought. "Meg, some of those things I said were terrible…I was angry, please forgive me." He sat beside her, and she uncurled, resting her head against his shoulder.

She sighed. "Should I?"

He tensed up. "Your choice."

There was a long silence before: "I forgive you, Erik. Besides, I brought that upon myself; I shouldn't have goaded you on. You…you can wear the mask if it makes you more comfortable."

He looked at the article in question where it lay upon the rough wooden floor. "I'll leave it here, I think."

"You didn't actually pay for that thing, did you?" she asked, wrinkling her nose again.

"Not all that much, but, yes, I did." He paused, looking at her in surprise. "Meg, you're not _condoning_ stealing, are you?"

She smiled. "Not usually, no. There are, however, certain things not worth paying for…that thing, for instance. Besides, stealing is risky…one could get caught."

Erik chuckled. "One simply has to learn how not to get caught, then. Especially in Egypt…they use capital punishment there, you know." He mimed a hand getting sawed off.

"Ew, Erik, stop that, that's disgusting," she said, standing up and moving away from him.

"Ah, finally! Something I've done that repulses you…you're not mad after all."

She glared at him before turning her attention to rummaging in her trunk for her dress.

"Don't forget to dress for the occasion," he quipped in mock seriousness. "Something… funereal ought to do the trick."

He ducked lazily, avoiding the slipper that Meg lobbed in the general area where his head had been. "Fine, I'll leave you alone… You have terrible aim, by the way."

_-----_

_6 August, 1872_

Christine stared into the mirror, hardly daring to believe that what she saw was reality. The girl in white stared back at her, meeting her gaze measure for measure as her maidservant Michelle fitted the small jeweled tiara in her dark curls, draping the veil over her face; the gauzy material was so thin and light that she appeared to be surrounded by a cloud of mist.

The girl in the mirror lifted the corners of her mouth into an appreciative smile; Raoul had outdone himself with the dress. Ignoring all protests that the dress was far too much, that she would be content with something much simpler, he had not merely bought the thing for her, he had even hired a seamstress for the express purpose of further modifying it to suit Christine's taste.

She proceeded to examine herself, the girl in the mirror smiling coyly, modeling the confection of rustling silks and endless lengths of delicate lace, tastefully adorned with what Christine strongly suspected were authentic diamonds.

_Perfection._

The word rang in her ears as though it had been spoken, but nothing passed between Christine and the other woman as she flitted about her mistress in last-minute attentions. For all intents and purposes, the girl staring back at her from the mirror was the image and embodiment of pure, unsullied perfection: the innocent and naïve little bride about to be claimed by her husband.

But Christine saw something entirely different—not in looking at the mirror, no, that yielded nothing; but in examining herself.

She was not innocent. She was not pure. And, above all, she was not naïve. Not anymore, anyway.

Christine was a woman, and had been for a while now. Her mind focused on practicality, not burdened with childish aspirations or dreams. Her heart had been molded, transformed into what it was now: no longer a feeble and impressionable thing, but something of hardened substance, enslaved to no one but herself.

Not that she didn't love anyone, not that she didn't care anymore, or was no longer gentle, no. She loved a great deal of people, showered abundant affection on anyone close to her. But she kept the smallest, most secret, most vulnerable part of her locked away, allowing none to come close, not again. She was wary to trust, examining her surrounds with a touch of cynicism that had never existed in her before.

The Child had been done away with, allowing the Woman to take her place.

Society, after all, was a cruel Mistress. And nothing mirrored the cruelty of real life better than the Arts.

-----

Erik placed the fashionable little hat with the veil on her blonde head, stepping back with a wry grin to admire her.

She turned to look at herself in the mirror. "It looks like I'm a widow in mourning."

"Well, aren't you? Your husband is a corpse, after all."

Meg ignored his comment and looked down at herself. Her improvised wedding dress was well-made and rather beautiful, but…dark. She would have preferred something lighter.

"I wouldn't have been able to find a hat to match," he said after she voiced her opinion.

"Must I wear the veil? I feel silly."

"But any respectable bride wears a veil!" proclaimed Erik, with a touch of what Meg believed to be his usual sarcasm. "Are you really going to deny me the pleasure of lifting it away from your face so I can kiss you?"

"Oh, there's a lot more I can deny you," Meg muttered darkly. "Besides, I'm not exactly respectable. No thanks to you."

Erik remained silent.

Taking the hat from her head and approaching him, she said, "I'm only teasing."

"What? Yes, of course." He waved her apology away. "I was merely going over everything in my head."

"Oh." She paused. "Well, did you get the papers?"

He grinned at her, producing them with a flourish from some inner pocket of his jacket. "Feast your eyes…quite an impressive bit of work, I must say. I wasn't aware that forgery was such a lucrative business, or I would have joined its ranks years ago."

"How much did these cost?" asked Meg, examining the crisp documents with interest.

"…Enough," replied Erik evasively. "No sense in troubling you with numbers…"

"'Mr. Erik Richard, Citizen of the United States of America,'" she read aloud choppily. "That's not your_ real _surname, is it?"_  
_"Perhaps. And perhaps not."

"How enlightening. Am I 'Madame Richard', then?"

"'Mrs.' would be the correct term, but yes. At least, not until later today."

"Mrs. Marguerite Richard." She smiled. "I quite like the sound of that. Though the Americans will probably butcher the pronunciation."

Erik laughed. "Oh, there's no doubt about that, Meg. Americans tend to butcher everything."

-----

Michelle had excused herself, leaving Christine alone with the mirror and her thoughts. She sighed, as did the mirror-twin in front of her, but, she felt, for a much different reason.

Already she had identified the discrepancies between herself and the girl in the mirror; in fact, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that, except for appearance, the girl staring back at her was a completely different person: merely an outward persona, what everyone wanted—and expected—to see. A frail little thing, meek, submissive, charming…the perfect little wife.

Inside though…her emotions were a mess. Who else could say that they'd already been in a wedding gown, nearly-claimed by a man completely different than the one she was about to marry? Who else could confess that they had been enslaved for years to a heavenly demon, one who could see right through her, who knew more about her than she herself did?

Even her marriage-bed was impure…not with the other man, no, never. But a little voice proceeded to remind her that she had indeed been driven to Raoul because of the other man, because he wouldn't leave her alone, because he wouldn't stop tormenting her, even in her dreams.

The clock on the mantel sounded the hour; two in the afternoon. She'd best be getting to the chapel.

With a sigh, Christine gathered up her silken skirts, leaving Little Lotte to stare back from the glass into an empty room.

-----

She trembled once she stepped on board, but the deck remained firm beneath her, quieting her past anxieties concerning sea travel, at least for the moment. Sighing with relief, she pressed on, Erik trailing her quietly, replacing their forged papers securely into a pocket of his jacket.

Their cabin was located largely without trouble; she had taken a wrong turn once, and there were a few frightened glances directed at the pair of them from other passengers, but that was to be expected. She wasn't quite sure why he had let her lead in the first place; she found it strangely unnerving not being beside or behind him, so halfway through their journey on the ship she tentatively reached out behind her for his hand. Not expecting him to actually acquiesce, she startled slightly when her fingers brushed something cold and dry.

She spun around to look at him, since he had withdrawn his hand. "Erik?" she said, hoping she wasn't, as she had feared, imagining things.

"I apologize; for a moment, I had thought that you wanted…"

He faltered when she gently took his hand, continuing on down the deserted corridor. "I did," she replied quietly. "I just wasn't expecting you to know, much less agree to it."

So she had held tightly to him, not caring if they looked ludicrous, trailing behind each other, holding hands; looks mattered nothing to her now, in this time of such tremendous change.

For Meg was a married woman—had been for nearly an hour—and about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, under not only a new identity, but also a false one. Combined, it was enough to make anyone exceedingly nervous.

Erik, however, seemed to show none of the disquieting anxiety his bride was now experiencing. In fact, he showed practically no emotion at all as Meg led him through the orderly labyrinth of corridors and closed cabin doors, content to sail behind her quietly, holding tight to one of her petite hands; nothing but an elaborate masquerade of a life, coming to its total and complete culmination after this last leg of ocean.

She relinquished her hold on him only after they were securely in their cabin, the door boltedbehind them. It was small, as ship's quarters are often wont to be, dwarfed even more so by Erik's sheer height; while he didn't have to duck to move about freely, it came very close to such circumstances.

"Well," he said, slowly glancing about the cabin before meeting her eyes again. "I suppose we'll make the best of it, all things considered." He glared helplessly at the ceiling above him for a moment, as if by staring at it like that he could persuade it to move upward.

"Yes," she agreed, thinking it rather comical. But there was a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach that intensified the more she looked at him, and she couldn't break away; he held her spellbound with his eyes, his small movements, his voice, held her captive as though he were a fierce and clever predator about to go in for the kill…

She shook her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Picking up her bag which had been deposited in the room before they had arrived and casting a glance at the bunks, she said, "I—I'll take top, shall I?" Had things always been so awkward with him? She didn't think so, but her mind was in no state now to remember details.

"Meg."

The voice was soft, but enough to stop her in her tracks and shake her to her core. "Yes?" she breathed.

He approached her. "I…I…" His hands shook as he gestured feebly towards the bottom bunk. "I'll take top. You can have the bottom," he said tersely.

She smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you," she said, and he nodded before turning away towards the tap.

She put her duffle bag on the floor by her feet as she sat down wearily on her bunk, watching him from across the small space as he rinsed his face at the tap, studying his reflection in the tiny mirror in front of him, the one she knew he would avoid looking at.

"We shouldn't be here for long…two days, at the most," he said, patting his face dry with one of the thin towels hanging by the sink. "You're not feeling seasick, are you?"

"No, I'm fine," she replied, surprised, pleased, and suspicious of his concern all at once.

"Excellent." He approached her again, almost timidly indicating the space next to her. "May I?" he asked.

She moved aside slightly to accommodate him, and they were promptly sitting side by side.

"Meg, I…"

She looked at him curiously, hoping to draw whatever was troubling him out; he usually spoke his mind freely, so this sudden apprehension on his part had her worried. Then she remembered that he tended to be shy like this when it came to the more intimate aspects of their relationship, and she blushed at the thought. It wasn't even evening yet, surely…?

He drew a breath, which seemed to steady him. "Meg, I was hoping, since we hadn't the chance in the clerk's office, if we…" He left his sentence hanging, seemingly embarrassed that he would be making such a request of her.

She smiled at him, nodding. "Of course, Erik; you don't have to ask for permission, you know." She slid closer, closing the gap between them, and tilted her face upwards slightly, hoping to encourage him.

He kissed her tentatively, at first barely brushing his lips against hers before pulling back, looking at her.

She grinned, reaching up and removing the decorative comb that kept her hair swept up, shaking her head, the wavy golden tresses framing her face, cascading down her shoulders. "That's it?" she asked, not quite knowing what inspired her to do so.

His expression was one of shock as she turned away to set the comb on the floor by her feet, but when she came back up he was ready for her, setting upon her lips with a sweet and terrible vengeance.

He kissed her again and again, fiercely, at times breaking only to breathe. He touched her, touched her face, her hair, laying a hand possessively over her own, seeking out his ring, the plain gold band that now adorned the fourth finger of her left hand, as if in confirmation that she was really and truly there with him.

"Erik's bride," he sighed. "Erik's living bride…"

"How are you doing that?" she asked; he'd just barely lifted his lips from hers, but she couldn't feel them moving as he spoke.

He chuckled, and still his mouth didn't move. "Erik has many talents…perhaps Erik will teach you."

"Later, though," she replied, kissing him.

Gone was the timidity of earlier; he subtly contested with her for dominance, and she let him, content to succumb. Somehow she sensed, she knew that Erik needed the control, but her pride and quiet domineering attitude were satisfied in knowing that he would really only go as far as she allowed. Behind the guise of their lovemaking and the actions leading up to it lay hidden a delicate and complex balance of control and trust, an elaborate dance of assertion of power and willing submission.

She let herself fall back slowly; he moved with her, kissing her cheeks, her neck, and everything in between, pulling away after only a few moments.

"Don't stop," she breathed, reaching out for him; her head rested fully against the mattress now, though her lower half was still angled from when she'd been sitting up straight.

"Oh, very well," he smirked, pulling her back up to meet him. "Am I really all that desirable, then?" he whispered against her forehead.

She moaned softly as he put his hands on her full breasts, leaning into his touch. "You have no idea."

-----

Christine said nothing as she pulled on her favorite white lace night dress, keeping her eyes on the darkened silhouette of the man who lay in her bed, waiting for her. Never before had he ever ventured into her room for this sort of thing—she had always come to him—and she found it unsettling, even going so far as to resent such a breach of privacy.

"_This shall be your room, my dear. Do you like it? Oh, no need to fear Erik, for he shall never come inside; this room is yours, Christine, Erik gives it to you to do with as you please…"_

She shook her head free of his voice, getting into bed with her husband. She turned to look at him, gently laying her hand on his cheek. "I love you, Raoul," she stated.

"Christine…" He kissed her again and again, and she trembled, not in anticipation, but in fear. She had to get out of this room, her last physical sanctuary,_ his _last spiritual stronghold. No matter how much she longed to, she couldn't bear to kill the last clinging shred of her Angel, which is what surely would happen if they continued; likewise, how could she be with her husband properly if she kept feeling someone else's hands on her waist, someone else's voice in her ear, someone else's touch on her breast…

"Raoul," she said, pressing a hand against his bare chest, putting distance between them. "Raoul, I can't. Please, stop."

He complied, looking at her, hurt and confused. "Christine, I don't understand. I thought you wanted—"

"I do," she said, lightly kissing his cheek in order to illustrate her point. "But not here. I don't know how to explain; somewhere else,_ anywhere_ else. Just not here."

He sighed. "Fine."

"Thank you," she breathed, moving away from him, redeeming her nightdress from the mess of tangles it had become. Raoul had put his shirt back on, buttoning it haphazardly as he opened the door and led the way down the hall, Christine following, closing the door behind her silently.

-----

"Erik?" she whispered. "Erik, are you awake?" She touched his shoulder, the skin cool beneath her searching fingertips.

"Yes, Meg. What is it that you want?" he replied.

"Are you nervous? Tell me truthfully. Aren't you the least bit afraid that we'll be caught? What if we're sent back? What if—"

He touched the tips of his fingers to her lips, quieting her. "Shh, Meg. Everything will be fine." He paused, pulling her a little closer to him. "Trust me."

"I do." She sighed, maneuvering a little room to stretch from the limited space with him in the bunk. "I tend to worry, though."

"I've noticed. What is it that you said about us not making it to Le Havre? And again to England? And _again_ to—"

"Yes, I know, I know. But you have to admit that brush with the customs officials in Halifax was just a _little_ unnerving, wouldn't you agree?"

"I was more worried about Portsmouth. Canadians tend to be much more lenient about their borders than their English cousins."

"But England is surrounded by water! Surely—"

"I never once said it made sense," he replied. "Getting into New York will be tricky as well…"

"You said the papers would take care of it," Meg whispered, her reasons for worrying suddenly confirmed, in her eyes.

"They will help, yes. We'll still need to be very careful, however. I'm not quite sure what their quotas are as far as immigration is concerned, but I know that they will not take lightly to the fact that they are unwittingly sheltering a criminal."

A shiver ran up her spine. "You make it sound so intriguing…"

"Do I? I tend to do that from time to time." He reached out and stroked her cheek. "Provided, of course, that I have an audience."

She smiled suggestively at him. "Of course. …Is there more to the show?"

His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows shot up. "I wasn't planning on it… Am I right in assuming that you meant this evening?"

"Yes," she said truthfully. When he appeared reluctant, she added, "Oh, Erik, please? If we start now, we might even be done before it's time for supper."

He smirked. "Well, it's finally nice to know where your priorities lie, my dear."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Meg. Though, now that you mention it, I am rather hungry…"


	12. Ch 10: Dance

**Sincere apologies for the four-month wait for this chapter. My poor muse stood no chance against the combined evils of first semester of college and Facebook, along with the many other dramas that accompany real life. But I am back in business, and that means more regular updates.**

**A huge thank you to all the readers and reviewers that have stuck with me so far, especially those who made sure to bug me occasionally about an update; this one's for you.**

**disclaimer: Characters belong to Leroux and Webber, respectively; "The Raven" is Poe's, as I have not the genius to write something so hauntingly beautiful as that poem.**

* * *

chapter 10 

_November 5, 1872_

"It's interesting…"

I looked up from my feeble attempts at mending one of my stockings to glance over at Erik where he sat across the room at the little writing desk, a stack of paper before him. "What's interesting?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing, I was merely thinking aloud," he said, turning away from me.

"Nonsense. You were trying to speak with me," I said, flicking my eyes down to my hands for a moment to sew another stitch.

"Really, Meg, you shouldn't act so knowledgeable about things you are uncertain of. And make sure you don't stain that stocking; blood is quite impossible to eradicate."

"What? What are you talking—_ouch_!" I dropped my sewing into my lap and glared at the pinprick of blood pooling on the skin on my index finger.

Erik chuckled softly. "Here, let me help," he said, coming over to me.

I put my finger in my mouth and sucked away the blood while Erik took my sewing from my lap, stitching up the hole quickly before returning needle, thread, and stocking to me. "There," he announced, and strode back to the desk.

I pulled my finger out of my mouth, examining the pad before wiping the digit absentmindedly on my skirt. "You always make me feel so ridiculous."

He actually laughed!

"I apologize, Meg," he replied, shaking his head, still chuckling softly while I scowled at him. "Besides, it's not _entirely_ your fault; you didn't get enough practice at that when you were younger, that's all."

"That's true," I conceded. "Dancing was my life." _Before you came along…_

"Is," he said curtly.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said dancing _was_ your life. I'm correcting you."

"Again," I replied tartly.

"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' Proverbs twenty-two, fifteen."

"Don't you start quoting the Bible at me; for God's sake, Erik, you sound just like my mother." Little did he know that I'd heard that very verse from her millions of times.

"All that aside," he said quickly, "I want you to dance again."

I crossed my arms in front of my chest defensively, looking at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because it's good for you." He paused, his eyes growing angry, though it seemed more self-inflicted than anything else. "And we need the income."

I paled. "What?"

"Come here."

A little wary, I got up from my seat and approached him.

He glanced up at me before returning his attention to the stack of papers. "There's no need to look so curious; I'm not writing." He sounded amused.

His statement only served to puzzle me further (as he knew it would, I have no doubt), so I stepped around the desk in order that I might stand behind him, lean in, and look.

Hundreds of little numbers scratched in varying shades of red accompanied by sparse notes in his all-too-familiar childish hand littered the pages. I squinted my eyes and leaned in closer.

"My financial record. I made a habit of it years ago; I was reluctant to trust anyone, especially when it came to money…"

I smiled smugly at his choice of words as I looked over his shoulder at the documents; the past tense made me feel like I'd accomplished something substantial in gaining his trust as I had. "May I see them?"

"Of course," he replied, and handed them to me.

Intrigued, I flipped through the manuscript—for it was loosely bound with a strap of sturdy leather weaving in and out of the papers on the left hand margin, significantly aged. The papers on top were yellowing, the writing less precise; I looked at the date in the upper right corner.

"October 4, 1853," I breathed, my eyes widening. "Christ, Erik, this was before I was born."

He chuckled. "Well, that puts things in perspective, now, doesn't it…"

"It does," I said. I flipped through the manuscript more, watching the writing transform, the entries become more organized, some even detailing individual purchases; my eye caught one reading "wedding gown" marked for the 7th of May, 1869, and I had to work hard to suppress the sudden, instinctual flood of jealousy, electing to pretend as if I had never spotted it.

Erik must have sensed my tension, for he made to take the documents back. "Here, look," he said, flipping to the very last section, past the page with the wedding gown and countless other purchases he must have made in those last days at the Opera. My eyes followed to where his finger pointed at one of the columns, noticing that the value of the numbers were, indeed, decreasing. I scanned the rest of the page. Monthly rent had steadily taken its toll, along with the price of the various sea passages and—

"Oh, Erik, I can't _believe_ you paid that much for those papers!" I exclaimed, looking at him.

He looked embarrassed for a moment. "Well, it's worth it, isn't it? We might still be stuck in Canada."

"There was nothing wrong with Quebec; at least they spoke French there."

"In any case, we're here now, so there's no use in fretting." He looked at me slyly. "Though I know that's what you do best…"

"Is it? I'll keep that in mind," I replied, my temper not improving. "For instance, when we're out on the street and starving."

Erik gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not going to come to that, Meg. I won't let it come to that."

"I appreciate the gesture, but how do you propose to get more money?" I asked. "Dancing only pays so much… honestly, Erik, it's not like you have anymore Opera managers to swindle."

He winced at my words.

"Well?" I continued, really and truly panicked now, though trying to hide it, to control it. "What is your plan, Monsieur?

He hesitated, shooting an almost guilty glance in my direction before staring at the surface of the writing desk. "I don't have one," he murmured, looking distinctly defeated and helpless for a moment.

That frightened me, the way he looked, more than what came out of his mouth. I trembled where I stood, shock and despair gripping me. "What?" I whispered, my mouth dry, my head spinning.

Before I knew quite what was happening, I found myself in Erik's arms. He held me tightly, standing close to me, so close I could hear the rapid thump of his heart. "Easy, Meg," he murmured. "Steady, steady, I'm here…"

I felt faint. "What happened?"

"You were going to fall," he informed me, and I blushed, pulling away from him, too embarrassed to enjoy the result of his uncharacteristic response to my weakness.

He let me go, taking a small step back against the desk. "Are you all right? Perhaps you should go lie down… Do you need anything, a glass of water—?"

"I'm fine, Erik. I'll live, I promise." I smiled up at him, hoping to put him at ease; though I still felt a bit lightheaded, at least the room was no longer spinning, and I could see the unveiled concern in his eyes. "Though I suppose a glass of water couldn't hurt."

He nodded, heading off into the pantry to get the water, and I sank into the chair by the desk to wait for him, examining again with anxious eyes the decreasing nature of the numbers detailed in Erik's record.

He returned, placing the glass before me, snatching away the manuscript hastily, much to my annoyance. Muttering something about "knew I shouldn't have shown her", off he went back into the furthest recesses of the apartment to stow the offending papers where he had gotten them from, leaving me alone with the glass of tap water.

I gulped the liquid down, trying not to think of the strange aftertaste I still wasn't used to, and, once done, sighed grumpily. Erik had, for once, entrusted me with information about our security and welfare instead of electing to simply ensure me that he "would take care of it" and I had ruined it with my little faint. I felt my cheeks burn in shame at my overreaction; I should have known better, that he wouldn't allow us to be put out on the street, that there was still quite a substantial sum left. Afterwards, I would wonder (and pester Erik about) how he had managed to secure a bank account in the States as well as transferring all of his funds into it, but for the moment I was too sulky.

It was no wonder why Erik treated me like such a child sometimes, I reflected with a dissatisfied frown.

When he returned from the back room, I was ready for him. "My apologies, Meg," he began, but I shook my head.

"No need," I said, going for nonchalance, but my voice was too tight, the reply too curt, too cold as I overcompensated around the lump in my throat, all too aware that my cheeks were still rather pink. I looked at him.

His eyes grew wary and confused, an expression to match stealing over his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Erik, nothing's 'wrong'. Why must you always assume that something is 'wrong'?" I snapped, then turned away, letting the first of my irrational, angry tears fall.

He made to approach me, but soon stopped dead in his cat-quiet tracks. I could hear the overwhelming incredulity in his voice as he asked, "Meg, are you…_crying_?"

"Leave me alone," I sniffed, wiping at my eyes angrily. Why was I always such a fool in front of him?

"Meg?"

His voice took on a new sort of tone, a plaintive one, and I glanced at him out of surprise, wiping away as much moisture from my eyes as I could. I gave a shaky breath out, trying to gain control of myself, watching as he took a few hesitant steps towards me, stopping, then closing the rest of the gap in four long strides after a moment. He grasped my chin, forcing my eyes to his. He opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly shut it, electing instead to wipe away the rest of my tears in silence.

I took a shuddering breath before speaking. "I'm sorry, Erik."

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure what you did or what just transpired, and therefore have no idea who's to blame. Tears do make me anxious, though, so you are forgiven." He brought his other hand to my face, stroking my hair, tucking it back behind my ears.

"I feel like such a fool," I muttered, sniffing again.

His eyes laughed, but he held unyielding control over his facial expression, not even the corners of his mouth twitching. "You're not a fool," he assured me, gently holding my face between his hands. "Even the best slip up, it's only human, really." He paused, giving me a small, mischievous smirk. "Good thing I'm not human then, eh?"

I scowled at him, and he chuckled, removing his cool hands from my cheeks. "Only joking, my dear. Incidentally, it's nice to see you back to normal." Another scowl from me, then, "I would like to know what happened, however."

"Erik, you should know by now that I always get moody right before my monthly—"

"Ah, right you are, right you are, no need to continue," he said hurriedly, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. It was my turn to smirk.

"Well, you _did_ say you wanted to know…"

"I realize that, Meg." He made a face.

I giggled, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "Poor, unhappy Erik," I whispered.

"Indeed, I am," he replied, kissing the tip of my nose. "Though I would be considerably happier if you were like this more often."

"That would make things far too easy for you, Erik," I said with a smile, sniffing yet again.

He made to kiss me on the forehead as I said that, but pulled away at the last moment. "Bah."

"What are we going to do about the finances?" I asked him.

He seemed wary to return to the topic that had caused the both of us so much grief for the afternoon. "Well… in the long run, it wouldn't hurt for you to dance again. Besides," he said quickly when I opened my mouth to reply, "it will be good for you. I know how happy it makes you, and you shouldn't be sitting around here all day."

"But I can't audition if I don't speak English, Erik. I wouldn't be able to answer their questions."

"Then all the more reason for you to start learning, isn't it?"

I stuck my tongue out at him, lacking a retort. "What about you, what are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided yet," he said. "I'll let you know when I do, however."

I wrapped my arms around him, resting my chin on his chest and straining to look up at him. "Do you promise?"

He kissed me on the forehead. "I promise."

-----

_November 16, 1872_

"I've thought of it."

I looked at Erik quizzically, having just stepped through the front door, returning from my latest afternoon spent with Mama Valerius. After helping her do some preparation on some of the vegetables she would be cooking for supper that night, we went back to her flat (the general kitchen area was on the first floor, whereas ours was the third) for an English lesson. Even though I was still having difficulties, it helped that she was much more patient about it than Erik was.

I closed the door behind me, locked it, then made my way over to him where he sat in his now customary spot by the desk. "What did you say, Erik?"

He was engrossed in going over some music. "Oh," he said after a moment of silence. "You wanted me to tell you when I decided on what I was going to do."

It took me several seconds to understand what he was talking about, but once I did, my mouth formed into a little 'O' of realization.

I must have looked rather ludicrous, for he looked up at me then worked to bite back a smile. "Catching flies, Meg?"

I shut my mouth, giving him a sour look. "Well?" I asked. "What grand scheme have you happened upon? First of all, will I need to prepare a bag, just in case we get caught?"

"It won't be quite so drastic as that, I assure you," he said, his voice sounding a little disapproving, but one look into his eyes told me he was more amused than anything else. He chuckled. "No, not so drastic. I'm going to sell my music."

The breath whooshed out of my lungs as my mouth fell open. "_What_?"

"No need to look so shocked." He paused, his eyes scrutinizing my face. "You're not going to faint again, are you?"

I colored at that, his comment jolting me enough to continue. "What do you mean, you're going to sell your music? You can't do that!"

His eyes narrowed. "And why not?"

"Because! It's your music, Erik! Your _music_."

"I fail to see what you're getting at, Meg."

Why was it so hard for him to understand? I didn't need to put it into words, even if I knew how; separating Erik from his music was wrong, yet even the thought of selling it was unimaginable. "It's just—it's just… horrifying."

"You make it sound like I've just suggested prostituting myself," he said grumpily.

"Better that than what you first suggested," I replied, and he scowled. "Besides, that's what you would be doing if you were to sell your music, prostituting yourself. I've seen you when you're composing, Erik, you pour your soul into that."

He laughed, but it was cold, and it made me shudder. I didn't like this Erik, the cold, callous, calculating one; this Erik could be frightening. "Hardly, Meg. Even if I had a soul, it's gone now, destroyed along with the Opera."

His comment about him not having a soul annoyed me, but the rest of what he said intrigued me, and my curiosity won. "What? What do you mean?"

"The night I took Christine, the Opera that was being performed? _That_ is where my soul went."

I struggled to remember; so much had happened that night. "You don't mean _Don Juan Triumphant_?" I was shocked; I had known he had written it, but for him to consider _that_ his life's work…

"Yes, Meg, I do mean _Don Juan Triumphant_. You think it's bad now? There was a time when I went nearly _two weeks_ without eating anything, I was working so hard."

"I…I didn't…"

"Besides," he continued, suddenly intent on returning to the topic we had previously been discussing. "Besides, I'm not stupid, Meg. What I'm considering putting for sale is _hardly_ my best work."

"It… it's not?"

"No, my dear. The two operettas in question annoy me a great deal, actually. I'd be glad to be rid of them."

"Op—_operettas_?"

"Again, no need to look so shocked," he said, but this time with amusement at the fact that I was completely dumbfounded at the turn of events. "They didn't take me that long, really."

I sat on the surface of the desk, needing to be off my feet lest I suddenly decided to faint again. "Erik, that's… that's _incredible_."

"Not especially," he said, standing and offering me his chair. I declined, but he remained standing, rifling through the stack of music sheets before him. "I wrote them on a whim, the ideas were trite, the score rather boring… Ah, but _here's_ a good one." He pulled two sheets away from the stack, handing them to me. "Have a look."

I did oblige him for a moment, looking at the notes that graced the page in the red ink he was so attached to, but I gave them back to him soon after. "Erik, I can't—"

"Read music, yes, I keep forgetting…" he finished, taking the sheets back, looking distinctly disappointed.

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

"No matter." He looked over the music again, his expression one of peace and contentment—something I'd rarely seen aside from when he slept. "But this one I am rather fond of… if only I could play it for you…"

"What is it called?" I asked, realizing suddenly that I hadn't thought to look at the title once he had handed them to me the first time.

"'The Raven'," he said. "I composed it for the violin."

"'The Raven'?"

"Inspired by Poe," he explained, but I was still confused, and I told him. He looked at me incredulously. "You don't know who Poe is?" he breathed.

I shook my head no.

"_Poe_? Edgar Allen Poe? One of the greatest writers this century has seen?"

By now, I was thoroughly embarrassed by my ignorance. "I've never heard of him," I admitted quietly.

He continued to look at me as if I had sprouted a second head for another several moments before plunging his hand into his jacket, withdrawing a worn piece of paper, yellowed with age, from some pocket within. He unfolded it, then began to read.

I closed my eyes soon after he began, swaying slightly to the cadence of his voice. He spoke in English, and some of the words were difficult for me to understand, but I listened to him as if he were singing. He might as well have been, his voice so musical, so melodic, so utterly captivating it was hard to deny.

"'And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted--nevermore!'" His voice had reduced to the merest shadow of a whisper, the last syllables fading away into silence as he reached the end of the poem. He cleared his throat then, folding the paper up and tucking it back into his pocket. "And that, Meg, was 'The Raven'."

"It's beautiful," I breathed. In all honesty, I had never heard anything like it. That, and the way Erik delivered it, the rhythm of the lines and the way his voice seemed practically _meant_ to say those lines, those rhythms aloud… it was a formidable, spell-binding force to be reckoned with.

He smiled at me. "That's the first thing I said after reading it for the first time." He paused, his expression hardening again, more fierce after the sudden light of his smile. "And what did you think of the subject matter?"

"The whole thing was distinctly…" I struggled to find the right word. "…Dark. Depressing."

"You expected differently? Honestly, Meg, I'm shocked."

I gave an overly-dramatic, longsuffering sigh, rolling my eyes at him. "But it still was beautiful, in its own way."

"Yes, it is," he agreed, then sighed as well. "One of these days I'll find a violin, and I'll play that for you," he said, gesturing at the sheets of music lying on the desk.

"I would love to hear it. If it's anything like what you just read to me…"

"It's not _that_ good, but it is decent, and I'm rather proud of it."

"It's always nice for an artist to have some sort of pride in their work."

"Indeed, it is." He paused, picking up a thin portfolio and tucking it under his right arm. "Which is exactly why I intend on selling these things off as soon as possible, and anonymously."

"Oh, Erik, must you? Couldn't you, perhaps, keep them and rework them?"

He shook his head no. "They're too far gone for any sort of rescue. And I'd rather have them turn some sort of profit than to have me get frustrated and merely tear them up…. Meg, _why_ are you so averse to this idea?" He seemed exasperated.

"It's just… Oh, I have no way to explain it, Erik! I just don't like it, that's all." I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way," he replied, though I could tell he really wasn't. "But this needs to be done."

I turned my back to him, taking a few steps away from the desk. "Fine."

I heard him give another sigh, then walk towards the front door. "Oh, I'd almost forgotten. Meg, I found a dance studio about seven or eight blocks from here that works in conjunction with a few of the local theaters."

I spun around to look at him again. "Really?"

He nodded, pulling on his long overcoat he liked to wear during the day sometimes, when his cloak would have drawn too much attention. "They're looking for assistants to help teach the classes and supervise with productions."

I found I couldn't say anything, so excited was I. I could start dancing again…

"Did you want to come with me? We could go look at it," he said gently.

"What?" I made an effort to focus on him again. "Oh, no, Erik, that's quite all right… I—I think I'll just run over to Mama's again, help her with dinner… You'll be back in time for dinner, yes?"

"Of course. Don't forget to lock the door on your way out, Meg."

"I will."

He put on his hat and turned away, started to unlock the door.

"Erik?"

He looked at me, his expression one of mild interest.

"Be safe."

There was the slightest shadow of a smile on his face as he opened the door swiftly, disappearing down the corridor.


	13. Ch 11: A Review and A Mystery

**I know this chapter was long in coming, and short--I'm not the best with newspaper articles. I tried to see if I could omit it, but it sets up a lot of stuff for the future, so, here it is. This also took a lot of research on my part, actually; reading through period newspaper articles of this nature, finding a place to plop the theater, etc. As a result, all streets and other landmarks referred to are real, excepting the Theater, which I've placed where the modern-day Long Island University now stands.**

**Fun fact: Brooklyn was it's own city--that is, separate from New York City--until 1898.**

**Anyway, thanks to all the lovely readers and reviewers, as well as Wikipedia and Google Maps for making this chapter possible.**

**disclaimer: Entirely fictional, excepting location.**

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chapter 11

(Excerpt from _The Times_, January 5, 1873)

_**Crowds Stunned by Operetta; Manager not to rest until mystery composer is discovered**_

_With the old year behind us and the New Year stretching out before us, 1873 seems a promising environment for new talent. As came as somewhat of a surprise to your faithful correspondent, this new talent arrived sooner on the scene than was anticipated, and from an even more unlikely arena._

_As the reader is no doubt aware, your faithful correspondent often makes it a habit of attending not only the most grandiose productions gracing the venues of this most noble city, but also those lesser prominent scattered throughout the city and those surrounding areas of interest. Today, your faithful correspondent would like to bring to the reader's attention the neighboring city of Brooklyn._

_Last Saturday night, the 3rd of January, the first of a series of what is to be believed three unrelated operettas was performed at the Little Theater. Situated at the intersection of Flatbush and De Kalb, relatively close to the natural beauty that is Fort Greene Park, the Theater makes for a most convenient and pleasant stopping place indeed. No doubt some esteemed reader's eyebrow is slowly creeping up in incredulity, for is not the Little Theater situated mere minutes away from the most renowned and respected Brooklyn Academy of Music? Good readers, you are indeed correct. It seems almost laughable that such a venue can even begin to compete with the Academy, but rest assured the location is highly favorable in comparison._

_Size, too, assures a grand spectacle—though architecture is rather lacking—as the auditorium is anything but "little" and provides marvelous acoustics, providing the listener the utmost enjoyment in the music and spectacles on the stage._

_And such a spectacle to grace the stage but two days ago! Violins sang and cymbals crashed as wave after wave of music washed over the record crowds of the evening. The performers—all local, of course, as that is all the budget of the Theater can afford to keep, being but a year new to the neighborhood—put on a wonderful show, the energy of a one-night engagement furthering the performance outcome._

_The operetta, written in French and based upon the well-known tragedy of _Romeo and Juliet_, featured soprano Della Dengrade and baritone James Bennett as the title characters, as well as tenor Arnold Hayes as Mercutio._

_Critics abound, but what never failed to astound most people was not the performance itself, but on discovering that the Theater had acquired the most-auspicious piece without any way of identifying the composer._

_When asked to comment on the unexpected success of the production, Theater Manager and Owner George Little informed your faithful correspondent that two additional pieces believed to be by the same composer had been acquired and scheduled to be put on in the upcoming months, and that he would not rest until the identity of the anonymous donor was revealed by some way or another._

"_I'm convinced the answer we're searching for is in our records. I have staff examining and correlating the books as we speak," said Little._

_Your faithful correspondent also requested to see the actual musical score, but was informed by one of the employees that it was now being kept under lock and key in Little's office, leading your faithful correspondent to come to the conclusion that clues as to the mystery composer's identity are to be found there as well as in the record books._

_Rest assured, your faithful correspondent will be bringing you the first news of any headway in this most intriguing case—for, the question remains to be asked, why would a person of such obvious genius be hiding behind the shadows of anonymity?_


	14. Ch 12: Uncomfortable Truths

**Sorry for the long wait again. And the short length. And I know people will complain about the cliffy. But hey, I haven't had a cliffy to play with in a while, so I think I get at least that allowance. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. As always, a huge thank you to everyone who's stuck with me all this time. Thank you.**

**disclaimer: ...I think you get it by now.**

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chapter 12

_March 9, 1873_

I looked up from re-reading the old newspaper Mama Valerius had given me to practice on, feeling as if I had already read each page a hundred times over; yet, if that was the case, why had I never seen this article?

"Erik?" I called. "Erik, have you seen this?"

He emerged from the back storage room, where he had spent most of the afternoon, tidying and organizing. When he had announced his intention to me earlier, I smirked to myself; I wasn't the only one experiencing cabin fever from this past winter, then.

"Have I seen what?" he said.

I held out the newspaper to him, and he took it, curious. "That article, there."

He skimmed for a few moments, and I watched his golden pupils move back and forth as he read. "This is the old one from January? …Ah, yes. I have seen this." He handed it back to me, shrugging. "You should ask her if she'll give you new material to read, I think you've worn that one out."

I merely blinked at him. "You… you've already seen that?"

"Well, yes, I'd have hoped so. That paper is two months old."

I waved that aside, folding the paper along its worn crease and setting it on the table. "You didn't tell me," I said at last, getting to the crux of the problem. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I wasn't aware I had to," he replied.

I worked hard to contain my sudden upset and hurt at him keeping something of such massive significance as this from me, trying to see it from his perspective. He was right; I had already had the paper for nearly a month at least. And I should have seen it, perhaps, but all the same…

"I'm just going to go ahead and apologize up front, right now. Hopefully that will avoid any resulting arguments from my obvious oversight and stupidity." He said it with a bite in his voice, something that had been absent in our conversation up until now.

I sighed, massaging my temples with my fingers; reading always gave me such a frightful headache. "Fine, Erik," I conceded. Maybe it would work. Maybe we wouldn't fight today.

He nodded curtly, and turned away, but before he could get out of the room I called after him, "Though I'd appreciate knowing about things like this in the future."

"As you wish, Meg." Why was his voice so cold?

I slumped back in my chair, picking up the paper again, rifling the pages as I looked for the article once more. Why had I never seen this before? I read through it yet again, slowly, forcing my lips to form each word in English, though keeping silent. Maybe something would leap out from the page of newsprint, trigger something in my memory, something that I might have glimpsed before today.

But no—try and try though I might, and though the words grew more and more familiar as I read them over and over, sometimes aloud, sometimes silently, no whispered murmuring of having seen it before came to me. Naturally, I was perplexed; I had read every single page of this paper front to back several times. So why was it that I was seeing this for the first time?

Finally convinced, I put the paper down and merely sat, thinking. But thoughts soon turned to hunches, which quickly turned into nagging suspicions, and I picked the paper back up, leafing through, locating the article, as I had done seemingly hundreds of times already today. I looked at the page, closely this time, ignoring the words, seeing the actual newsprint. Could it be…?

Yes. There it was, proof, right before my eyes: a light crease down the middle of the page, showing where it had been folded, going against the rest of the paper. My heart sank in realization; Erik had purposely hidden this from me.

But why? That is what troubled me most, not knowing why, the reasoning behind his actions. Why had he felt it so necessary that I not see this?

What else could he be hiding from me?

Of course, that was a silly thing to wonder. He kept his past life under lock and key, only allowing me tantalizing glimpses every so often, so of course he was hiding things from me. I didn't think I wanted to ever know everything he had done, either. I might not have been able to handle that.

No; though I was to a certain extent curious about his life before the Opera, or even during, I felt like I had a _right_ to know what went on now. Didn't I? I mean, I _was_ married to him, wasn't I? I was an implicit part of his life now, so didn't I deserve to know who or what else was?

Part of his life… _His_ life. Was that all I was now? What had happened to _my_ life? Where had my identity gone? Before, everything had seemed so certain. I hardly knew who I was anymore. What had happened? I must have been so young, so naïve; now, it seemed to me like I had suddenly woken up to find myself here, to see my world clearly for the first time. It wasn't jolting, I didn't have to break through a fairytale world of perfection to get to where I was, but all the same. It was… different. I looked again to the incriminating page, the words on it possibly spelling out my future for all I knew. Had the other operettas been performed yet? Were people still looking for Erik? I paused—if that were the case, then we were in danger of our secrecy becoming compromised. If the truth leaked out… well, I couldn't bear to dwell on the consequences, not now. There were other things to worry about.

Should I confront Erik with my newly-acquired knowledge? Demand to know what else he was hiding from me? I didn't want to start yet another shouting match, but it somehow seemed inevitable, like two trains hurtling towards each other, and it was only a matter of time before they collided.

Though perhaps it wasn't inevitable. I sat and pondered that for a moment. Maybe someone had the information, the resources to make an informed decision and shift the tracks, allowing the two trains to dance close, but not collide. What then? It would certainly avoid something dreadful. But eventually the tracks would have to be reconciled, returned to how they were before.

I'd bring it up with him, of course. Eventually. But why initiate another argument when it could be avoided altogether?

--

Regardless of my decision, I was still substantially upset, and I now had no way of letting go of some of my anger. I couldn't talk with Mama Valerius about it, she wouldn't understand; or worse, would go poking around, looking for answers. It was wearing me down, trying to keep things like Erik's true identity and my past hidden from her, and now that I had effectively stopped talking to Erik about substantial things to avoid an argument, the peace I had been trying for eluded me even more. Damnable irony.

So, it was with some trepidation that I climbed into bed that night, my back to Erik to keep from looking at him and betraying anything. I curled into a fetal position, snuggling under the blanket, startling when I felt him shift slightly next to me—he almost never moved when he was sleeping. _Please, please let me be, Erik. Please…_

Of course, I next felt his hands on my shoulders, causing me to startle again. There was a pause before he started lightly kneading some of the tension from my shoulders and neck. "You're tense," he whispered.

I straightened myself out, trying to bat his hands away. "Not tonight, Erik," I said. "I just want to rest."

I couldn't see him, but from the awkward silence between us now, he seemed taken aback; and who could blame him? In all honesty, I had never thought I would have been able to say such a thing to him. Intimacy was the last thing I needed right now, however. I was a good liar, but not _that_ good.

Still, I felt guilty for turning him down like that, so, steeling myself, I turned over and cuddled close to him. "Tomorrow," I promised, kissing his cheek gently.

He sighed in what seemed to me like contentment, holding me close to him. I reached up and cradled his face with my hands before gently stroking the thin wisps of hair on his head, watching as his eyelids drooped steadily before ultimately closing in quiet slumber.

I maneuvered my head back to my pillow, letting a sigh escape my lips. My heart tugged at me softly as I watched Erik's peacefully sleeping form, but other than that minor annoyance no other guilt plagued me. I smiled.

Perhaps this was going to be easier than I thought.

--

_May 22, 1873_

I paced back and forth, my hands behind my back, my eyes closed. No wonder Erik did this when he was writing music; the rhythm of my steps, the constant movement lulled me, helped to calm and clear my head.

My rhythm was interrupted momentarily by a second set of footsteps joining me. I opened my eyes, looked around; there Erik was, walking beside me, my mirror image—excepting, of course the glaring discrepancies.

"What are you up to?" he asked.

"Just thinking." I stopped to look up at him.

"Should I be scared?" he teased.

I poked my tongue out at him. "Definitely."

We hadn't had a major argument since I had decided to keep what I knew to myself, and I was keen to keep it that way. Of course I knew I had to bring it up eventually, but the relative serenity I was experiencing was far too intoxicating to relinquish just yet.

There was a sudden knock at the door, and both of our heads swiveled around at the unexpected sound. Reacting first, I stepped towards it while Erik melted into the shadows in the far corner of the room.

"Hello," I said, inwardly wincing at my less-than-perfect pronunciation, copying Erik's habit of only opening the door enough to peek from. "Can I help you?"

The strange man in the doorway momentarily consulted a slip of paper in his hand in astonished confusion, his dark eyes scrutinizing me from the bronzed and weathered face. Agitated, he fumbled with the strange little cap that he had balanced precariously on his head, finally speaking. "Ah, I'm sorry to bother you, Miss, I must've gotten the wrong address…" He consulted the paper again, this time staring at the metal numbers tacked up on the wall next to the door instead of looking at me.

"Who are you looking for? I can get Mrs. Valerius—she's our landlady."

"No, no, I don't think that will be necessary, child, thank you. Unless…" He stared at me again, the beginnings of comprehension of some sort creeping across his swarthy features. "How long have you lived here, mademoiselle?" he suddenly asked me in rapid-fire French.

"Almost a year," I replied, also in French. "Why?"

He ignored my question, asking another one instead. "1872, then, am I correct? And when did you leave France, mademoiselle? You _are_ from France, are you not?"

"Yes, I'm from France—I was born there."

"And the other question? When did you leave?"

I glanced behind me, unnerved, feeling a hand on my shoulder. I looked at Erik, a question in my eyes. He nodded.

"1871."

"I see." He paused. "You are… not alone?" he asked, gesturing at the empty space behind me that he could see, clearly alluding to the fact that I had turned my head away for a moment.

"My husband is home, yes." I smiled; I never tired of saying that phrase. _My husband…_

Whatever emotion had been steadily building within him suddenly shattered; I could see his face fall. "A thousand pardons, Madame," he said, contrite. "For a moment, I…" He turned away and took a few steps down the hall, only to come running back several seconds later. "Madame," he said, the glint of excitement returning to his eyes. "Madame, is, perhaps, your husband's name…Erik?"

I felt Erik stiffen behind me, and before I knew what was happening, he pushed the door open with tremendous force, I near-having to leap out of his way.

"What," he said, his eyes ablaze, "the hell do you want, Daroga?"


	15. Ch 13: An Unexpected Visit

**Here I am once again, returning from my hiatus and presenting chapter 13. I apologize for the cliffy last chapter; incidentally, this picks up right where chapter 12 left off, so you might want to go back and re-read the last bit. I've missed writing this and I'm very happy to pick it up again, so hopefully the next chapter comes sooner. Massive thanks and huggles to everyone, both readers and reviewers, who has stuck with this. Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

**disclaimer: _-yawn-_**

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chapter 13

"What the hell do you want, Daroga?"

The man stepped back, flustered, yet obviously pleased. "Aha! So the Opera Ghost has vacated his position at last. Then again, I couldn't blame you…"

I paled, stepping behind Erik, quaking with fear. _We were discovered!_

Erik laughed, a sound without humor, cruel and merciless. "You know, Daroga, you're one of the few people on this planet that realizes a monster like me has at least _some_ semblance of good taste and self-preservation."

The man gave a loud snort of amusement. "You expected otherwise?" He made to enter the apartment, but Erik's lithe frame blocked him.

"The point is," he hissed, "_you_ weren't _expected_ at all."

"Oh, come now, Erik. You wouldn't turn an old friend away, now, would you?"

"Damn you, you insolent, _nosy_ little bastard! What do you think gives you the right to just come waltzing into my home?"

"Erik, I really would rather not do it this way, but…"

"Leave. _Now._"

The man sighed. "Very well, Erik. Adieu." He nodded politely in my direction. "Sorry to have troubled you, Madame."

I returned the gesture, unable to say anything; I was still in shock.

The man continued, looking at Erik gravely. "You can expect the authorities in two hours' time. I'm sure that'll be sufficient to get both yourself and the girl out of here safely." And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

"Dammit," muttered Erik. He was positively seething with rage. "Dammit, dammit, _dammit_." He sighed, glancing at me; my eyes were wide and I had resumed my trembling with even greater force.

"Nadir!" he finally called. "Get the hell back over here."

I watched as his head popped out from the stairwell around the corner. "Somehow, I knew you'd say that." There was a wide, friendly smile on his face that contorted his features such that it appeared he was grimacing slightly.

Then again, perhaps he suddenly was, because Erik was entirely without humor, staring at the man in a way I had never seen before. I counted myself lucky as to never having been on the receiving end of such a look; that was pure and unadulterated loathing written across his face, his eyes burning.

Erik and I stood there waiting until the man returned to us and entered our apartment; I could feel Erik behind me shaking in restrained rage the whole time. I felt timid, unsure, nearly gasping when he gripped my upper right arm too tight, pushing me towards the door, following closely behind me and casting a glance in the hallway carefully before closing the door and bolting it. To this day, I'm surprised he managed not to slam it; I feared he might have, and who could possibly come running to investigate in response.

Now that he was inside, the man seemed to lose some of his confidence; he was in foreign territory now, and though he made an effort to relax, even I could sense the obvious tension in the room. It was almost tangible.

Erik, it seemed, took no notice of the apparent anxiousness of the man. Rather, I think he only served to heighten it, still raging and storming, mumbling to himself in languages I couldn't understand, slamming things as he put them away, clearing off the quasi-table that he had transformed into his personal work desk.

He disappeared for a moment, during which I became aware that our unannounced visitor was now staring intently at me. My first instinct was to blush and turn away, which I did, but even that attempt at making my discomfort apparent did not sway him. My neck prickled with the strange sense of known observation. And, even then, I couldn't bring myself to be entirely upset at him; he must be wondering how I had ended up here, with Erik, just as I was wondering the same about him.

He had effectively called Erik an "old friend", which, though resorting to blackmail to gain entrance to our apartment, could not be discounted, in my eyes at least. The very fact that he had not killed the man on the spot was mute though horrifying testimony. Also to be observed in Erik's actions was the sense of a potential threat; why else had he reacted so? I'd never seen anything quite like it before, which, considering his latest penchant for maintaining a certain sort of tenderness in our interactions, was all the more shocking.

I reflected on all these new, alarming questions with a grimly satisfied smile on my face; and Erik said I couldn't reason things out for myself…

I shot the stranger another glance as Erik emerged from the back room with an extra chair, realizing suddenly from this awkward angle that I must have seen him somewhere before, as he was vaguely familiar to me. But where…?

"Sit," commanded Erik somewhat imperiously—again something I was now unaccustomed to seeing from him—setting the extra chair down across from his own, gesturing at our visitor.

The man seated himself with some trepidation, shooting nervous glances over his shoulder at the bolted door across the room. I saw Erik smile viciously at him.

"Regretting it, are we?" he said, sitting down in that unnervingly graceful manner of his, steepling his hands together and resting his chin thoughtfully on his index fingers. "You're in the lion's den now."

He plucked the strange little hat from his head, crunching it with his hands out of nervous habit. "Don't be ridiculous, Erik. I know you'd never harm me."

"Do you? We might have to shake some of your misplaced faith, Daroga."

"But…" He looked at me surreptitiously.

Erik laughed, still cold, though considerably thawed since the last time. "You think because she is here I wouldn't do anything? Oh, don't worry about that, my friend, Meg is quite familiar with my…habits." He paused, watching the man shrink a little under his golden gaze, before catching my eye. I knitted my brows together in disapproval, and his eyes twinkled back at me; all good fun, then. "Which reminds me," he continued, almost business-like in manner. "Come here, Meg. I haven't yet introduced you."

All traces of tension seemed to dissolve as I stepped towards the two of them, not quite sure if the calming effect was my own doing or something else entirely.

Erik reached out for me and wrapped his arm about my waist, pulling me close to him. After the shock of this morning, I welcomed this simple, familiar contact, but all the same, it felt awkward being watched like this. "Nadir," he said, somewhat proudly, almost reverently, "this is Meg."

The man called Nadir stood and approached me, bowing. "A pleasure," he said in French; for the first time, I noticed his accent was tinged with something else, another accent that I couldn't quite place. I extended my hand to him politely, and he took it, making to bring it to his lips, but Erik made a noise somewhat akin to a rather nasty snarl, so he settled for a quick shake instead. "Again, I apologize for troubling you."

"Oh, it's nothing, I assure you…Nadir, is it?" My words sounded flowery and foreign to me as I spoke. I would never have survived living in high society; this meeting ritual always seemed so false.

"Yes, that's correct."

"It's an unusual name," I said. "Forgive me, but… I thought Erik called you something different earlier…?"

"Oh, do you mean 'daroga'?" I nodded. "It's a title, you see. I was chief of police in my old country. Retired, of course," he added quickly as I took an involuntary step back, deeper into Erik's peculiar one-armed embrace.

"He has other titles as well," said Erik unexpectedly. "Such as 'political exile', 'victim of the Shah', and sometimes even 'traitor'." Nadir scowled, but Erik chuckled. "Though perhaps you know him best by yet another: 'The Persian'?"

"_The Persian_?" I gasped, drawing away from him a little more, crossing myself in habit, suddenly becoming a little ballet rat again as my memories ran rampant. How could I forget scurrying about the Opera corridors with the others, swapping frightening stories about the Ghost and the mysterious Persian that both haunted the place, crossing ourselves when we came across the latter of the two, giggling anxiously as he spared us a glance before going on his way? How appropriate that I should now be acquainted with the both of them, The Ghost and The Persian. It was almost comical in its irony.

And it almost made sense. Why else would The Persian have been at the Opera, but for the Ghost? Yet, how had the two met? It could have been any time during Erik's extensive travels; I racked my memory for any mentioning of a venture to Persia…

"So she was at the Opera as well," said Nadir, seemingly just as shocked as I. He moved back around the table to his seat. "Just when I was about to congratulate you on getting a girl without resorting to kidnapping… Tell me, Erik, was she before or after the one you were so utterly besotted with?"

Erik was silent except for the deep, quick breaths he was taking through the gap where his nose should have been. "Meg," he said quietly, letting go of me. I turned to look at him; he was terribly angry again, his gaze fixed on The Persian. "Meg, if you would go into the pantry and bring me a glass of water, I'd be very, very grateful." He was working hard to keep his voice where it was, nearly shaking from the effort of controlling his violent temper.

"Of course," I replied. I moved around behind his chair for a moment on my way to the pantry, placing my hands gently on his shoulders, kissing the top of his head. "Breathe, Erik," I murmured into his skin. "Relax. It'll be fine." He brought his left hand up to briefly touch mine where it rested on his shoulder—my signal to go. I hoped he wouldn't do anything rash.

He didn't even wait until I was in the back room to start. "You stupid, pathetic excuse for a piece of unmannered shit!" I heard him fume, and winced, opening the door to the pantry as silently as I could. "How _dare_ you mention Christine to me? Who do you think you are, invading my home, troubling, belittling, _insulting_ myself and my wife—"

"Wait just a moment, Erik, I did no such thing—"

"Shut up!" he roared, and there was a thud; I prayed it was only Erik pounding his hands on the table, or something similar. "Shut up, Daroga, and listen. You _will_ listen to me. I wouldn't have spared you all those years ago, if I had known you would become such a damn nuisance; I'm starting to regret my decision." There was a pause; in the silence I found I was holding my breath, and exhaled, chiding myself and reaching for a glass to fill with water.

"Now," began Erik again, "I shall be asking the questions, not you. I know it will be difficult for you, chief of police as you are, so let me put it in terms you will better comprehend. Consider this an interrogation, Daroga, an interrogation where one wrong answer, one foul move, means death. Do we understand each other?"

I gasped, almost dropping the glass in shock. He wouldn't…

"You wouldn't," said Nadir, his voice quivering.

"Wouldn't I?" quipped Erik. He seemed like he was holding back laughter, but the cold, cruel kind, the kind I hated hearing. "You of all people know better than to underestimate me."

I grabbed the pitcher and filled the glass to the brim, some of the water sloshing out over the sides from the trembling of my hands. Out of the pantry I rushed, spilling more of the water as I went down the short hallway, dreading what sort of sight I would be met with in the main room.

Things were relatively unchanged, though Nadir looked like most of the blood had drained from his face, and Erik had taken to pacing slowly, his chair lying on the floor from when it had been knocked over, thus explaining the noise I had heard. I set the glass on the table, tugging on Erik's shirt as he passed me, still pacing. "Erik," I said as quietly as I could, drawing close to him once he stopped to regard me. "Erik, please… please don't kill anyone. I don't want any trouble."

He sighed. "I know. I'm sorry for frightening you, Meg. Thank you for the water," he replied, equally as quiet, brushing a few fingers across my cheek for a moment, the hint of a sad smile on his lips.

I nodded, then turned and headed into the back hallway once more, this time stopping just outside the pantry and not going in; I wanted to make sure I heard everything.

"And now," said Erik, "we begin."

"Where has she gone?" asked Nadir quietly.

"You're lucky I'm in a better mood," replied Erik. I could imagine him glaring at the poor man before answering, "She's gone into the back room to unobtrusively overhear our conversation, of course. And we shall oblige her." There was a pause, and he began once more, "What is your purpose here, and what do you want?"

"News," came the quick reply. "And a proposition."

"And what makes you so sure that I'm even interested in hearing what you have to say?"

"These are why," said Nadir. There was a lull, and then a sudden thump of something being dropped onto the table.

"Hmm…" I heard Erik say, and all was silent except for the turning of pages. Then, quiet, astonished, nervous: "Where did you get these?"

"I have connections, you see."

Erik merely laughed. "You probably stole these, didn't you."

"I'll leave the stealing to you, Erik," came his sour reply. "Don't believe me? Fine. But these are in your handwriting, you can't deny that."

"No, I cannot. Even if it was a rather good copy, the color of the ink is too exact a match." A chair squeaked, and I imagined Erik leaning back into his chair, his arms folded on his chest. "So this is how you tracked me down, you old devil. Must you meddle in all my affairs? I wanted these gone, dead, and buried, not connected to me."

"Any idiot can see—"

"Then I suppose I'm worse than an idiot, Daroga. I want those burned."

"Erik, you don't know what you're saying."

"I do, actually. Burn those. Or I'll do it, and you with them."

"Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I can't. Little wants them back."

"Dammit, Nadir, that sorry excuse for a journalist is getting into everything—"

"I know, I've read—"

"If he finds me, if he finds _Meg_—"

"He won't, I'll be discreet, I swear."

"You will. Your life depends on it, Nadir. If that man finds us, I swear to God I'll find you, and I'll kill you."

I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall of the hallway, my head reeling. What were they talking about now? I couldn't focus, and I felt a little faint again. Perhaps some water would do me good.

I opened my eyes but immediately regretted it, as the hallway began spinning. I shook my head and closed my eyes again, bracing myself against the wall, waiting for the nausea to subside. What was happening?

Slowly, very slowly, I managed to prop myself up once more, breathing hard. I didn't want to open my eyes for fear of experiencing that strange, frightening feeling of vertigo again, so I felt my way along the wall, looking for the door into the pantry. I risked opening my eyes once inside, hoping the dark would let me adjust.

I had guessed right, but now I could feel a dull thumping in my skull, drowning out all snippets of conversation. I thought I heard my name a few more times, but then there was an imperceptible shift to the flow and tone of the voices, combined with my headache, thus rendering it unintelligible to me. Needless to say, I was very put-out.

I grabbed a glass from off a shelf and filled it with water, drinking deeply, filling it up a second time, and then a third. The liquid was cool and refreshing, and at first my head felt as if it would begin spinning again, though the sensation subsided quickly.

Sighing, I sank down to the floor, glass in hand, my back leaning against an empty storage shelf. What wouldn't I give just to lie down and rest my thumping head? These fainting spells were getting to me, and I was just so tired.

But what was that? It seemed like a peculiar music of some sort, floating in and out of my consciousness. I strained to hear the conversation once more, but it was completely gone, replaced by this odd music of short phrases and slight nasal tones, strung together impossibly, but so beautifully. It almost made sense to me, the meaning just beyond my grasp; I closed my eyes and merely listened, encompassed in dark, and in sound.

I could now distinguish two melodies in counterpoint with each other. One would sound, and then the other, sometimes the two coming together in a loud clash of jumbled noise and notes before subsiding again, falling into their respective parts. One of the lines was lower than the other; a baritone, if I could remember correctly, but my head was giving me problems enough as it was with its soft, constant drumming in my ears, dancing in and out of the music that was all around me. The other was a beautiful, almost unearthly tenor, though it would fluctuate on occasion, dipping down into the lower register for a threatening rumble of notes, at other times nearly a falsetto, cascading back to its normal range slowly, like water trickling down a gradual slope to fill cool, quiet pools at the end of its journey. It seemed almost comforting, how familiar it was, and yet I had never heard anything quite like it in my life. The closest I had come to it was… was…

Erik. I opened my eyes, and the dark room swam quickly into focus. My head throbbed, but I sat up anyway, took another great gulp of water; it wasn't music at all, I realized, it was their conversation. There, Erik was speaking, and now Nadir. It sounded positively heated, the way they were carrying on, going back and forth.

Oh, but what were they _saying_? Why couldn't I understand them? It was a form of strange, foreign music to my untutored ears; could it be another language?

I listened more intently this time, determined on distinguishing meaning instead of floating with the musicality of the conversation. There—Nadir's voice sounded more natural, as if this was the language he was meant to speak, the one he had been born into. I couldn't find any other explanation as to why he sounded so strangely confident, though perhaps it had to do with the topic of conversation as well. Erik spoke again, musical as always, but it perplexed me; he was as much a native speaker of this language as Nadir was! And he was speaking fast, as if excited, or nervous. Again I wondered what they could be talking about, and why they had switched languages mid-conversation, to something Erik knew I would be unable to comprehend, no less. Perhaps Nadir had simply lost patience and felt more comfortable speaking his native Persian—if that was, in fact, what they were speaking—but I had a half-formed suspicion that there was another reason in play as well.

I took another drink from my glass, draining it, fully intending to stand and get more before returning to the main room to try and understand what was going on. But their voices were so beautiful, working in conjunction as they were, and the room was so nice and cool and dark, and my head was thumping so dreadfully…

"Meg?" Someone was shaking me by the shoulder, jostling my head around, something I didn't like.

"Go away, " I moaned, batting at the person half-heartedly with my hand, turning my head away gingerly, but it was too late: the thumping had already started up again.

There was a soft _clink_ of glassware, another shake on my shoulder. "Meg, you fell asleep."

I opened my eyes, but they would only go half-way, and I was in no hurry to force them open any time soon. "Erik…?"

In a moment he was there, his face rather close to mine. "I'm right here. What do you need?"

"Is… is he gone?"

"Nadir? Yes, he is gone. Finally."

I made to sit up, but the pain in my head doubled, an all out pounding now. "Oh…"

"Meg? Is everything all right?"

I shook my head no, but instantly regretted it—the shock of pain was excruciating. "Erik, oh, it hurts…"

"Where?"

"My head," I whispered. He peered into my eyes, swimming in and out of focus.

"Let's get you out of here," he murmured, and without warning I found myself scooped up into his arms. "Christ, Meg, what have they been feeding you?" he teased, carrying me out of the pantry.

"S-same as you."

He kissed my forehead before setting me down slowly onto the bed. "I know."

I sighed, closing my eyes, feeling drowsy once more.

"Are you hungry? I'll get you something to eat, perhaps that's it."

"No, I'm… I'm all right. What… what did he want, after all?" Oh, the pounding was getting unbearable.

"It's nothing; I'll explain later. Get some rest," he replied, backing away from the bed. I could hear him moving around on the other side of the room, putting papers in order, humming softly.

I fell asleep to that sound, that music, the last thing I heard until mid-morning the next day.


End file.
